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ugh-yoongi · 2 months

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. <3

#jimin x reader #jimin smut #bts x reader #bts smut #jimin imagine #jimin scenarios #jimin fanfic #jimin x you #jimin x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts x you #bts x y/n

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soraviie · 10 months

Text

another member is in love with you.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader ━ navigation

━ about: angst, a few hurt/comfort elements; this somehow wound up being about the bond between boys as much as the x reader part

━ pictures taken from Pinterest

━ c/w: depiction of throwing up in Jimin’s part

NAMJOON | “Since when did you switch to another movie?”

Though the haze with which he’d come home with had not disappeared entirely, it did lessen. However, with this sentence being the first and only thing he’d spoken to you the entire day…well, you couldn’t help but be just a tad ornery.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” you jeer. “We do hope you enjoy your stay here.”

But something is undeniably wrong and it’s not the silence or the faraway gleam of his expression that gives it away but rather the absolute lack of reaction. His hand still monotonously brushes up against your leg that sits perched up in his lap but he’s simply not here.

“Joon,” you call out, a stern new tone lilting your voice. It stirs him enough to break whatever trance he self-imposed and lifting his head, Namjoon blearily blinks up like one would after a long nap.

“What’s with you?”

“What do you think of Yoongi?”

Sitting half-turned on the sofa with a distinct wrinkle of an oncoming frown, he awaits your answer. One you don’t know.

“Yoongi?” you parrot, all of a sudden being the confused one. “What…what does Yoongi have to do with anything?”

“Like are you two close?”

A beat of silence drags on as you stare at each other. It is frustrating being asked something you did not understand and yet even more so looking into Namjoon’s eyes and having no idea what is it that’s sitting behind them.

“Uh…not really?” at last you cautiously reply. “He texts me something funny every now and then but that’s it.”

“What kind of ‘something funny’?”

The room tumbles into another bout of silence. Slowly you tuck your legs away and though his fingers clutch repeatedly around the emptied air as if the sudden domestic absence has hurt him, the tone of his voice is just too damn imperial for you to care.

“Memes, cat videos,” unwittingly, a part of you — not so agreeable part — breaks free and arching an equally damning eyebrow, you goad him on: “Why? You want to have a look?”

He thinks of it, he genuinely weighs it over, you could see it in the way his pupils dart to the side, half-calculating, half-ashamed of the possibility. By the time that he wistfully utters: “no, there’s no need” it is too late. The tranquil peace of a quiet evening has thoroughly evaporated — what lingers in the air now is terse and partly hidden.

You may not know Yoongi but Namjoon knows Yoongi and he knows that there is something soft that quirks his lips at the mere mention of your name. That the way his gaze follows you around is just a touch too tender. Safe to say, it all goes unspoken — it is Yoongi after all — and Namjoon doesn’t know whether it’s for the better or worse. There is a certain kind of cathartic appeal to just shouting things aloud, consequences be damned, but as it stands, for now at least, everything is quiet and nothing is resolved.

Still, Yoongi doesn’t bother you — shouldn’t that be enough? He has the freedom to feel how he feels, just not the right to act upon it. And the fact is that it wasn’t Yoongi per se that was ruining his relationship right now; Namjoon was doing it quite well all by himself.

Peeking at you from the corner of the eye, he finds you sitting blue. Blue as in bathed in the blue light of the working TV although you do appear quite sad — all shrunken away into the corner, staring at the screen but not seeing anything.

You’ve had a fight.

He just started a fight.

Drawing a curt sigh, Namjoon inches himself a bit closer, acutely monitoring every last bit of you, down to the microexpressions. The slightly stretched out bottom lip, the tightly wound arms around your stomach, just the slight, almost imperceptible crease in between your eyebrows — yes, most certainly, you’ve just had a fight.

Still despite Namjoon moving ever so closer, slyly crawling back into your good graces both metaphorically and physically, you don’t make a move to deny him or cuss him out. In fact, you don’t make any move and once again he doesn’t know if that’s for the better or worse.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s earnest — you both know it is. You may not know that he’s saying sorry for more than just this but that too is earnest. “I don’t want us to fight.”

“Then don’t start no fights,” spitefully, you bite back but if your non-reaction was anything to go by as Namjoon places a palm on your knee, he will be forgiven.

YOONGI | Well, I should count my blessings it wasn’t Jungkook. Chiefly, that’s the first thought that pops into his head when on a random Tuesday in the most random of practice rooms, he sees the contact picture saved as Jimin’s phone lights up. Yoongi knows that picture, he took that picture. Which of course prompts the question how did Jimin get his hands on it because last time anyone checked you were Yoongi’s partner and not anyone else’s.

Sliding to unlock the call, he’s hoping like never before that it won’t about to change.

“Yes?”

“Yoongi?” instantly, you wonder. “Where’s Jimin?”

“Don’t know. Why do you—” fuck, his voice cracked. “Why do you want him? I mean, talk to him?”

“I don’t even know myself, dude,” loudly, you complain. “He called me some time ago, saying there’s something uber important to talk about and now I can’t get a hold of him anymore.”

Just then when Yoongi’s heart is about to free fall right to the bottom of his stomach, the doors to this very random practice room open and because life has a cruel and twisted sense of irony, it’s Jimin who steps through. Lately, he’s been looking haggard and it had been an unspoken agreement between the boys that his problems laid with album production but now, in one hand holding the love of his life and in the other what probably was his brother’s heart yearning for one he couldn’t have, Yoongi wonders whether it’s you whose keeping Jimin up at night with guilt. You and the smiling picture he definitely shouldn't have.

For a moment they simply stare at each other, without speaking a word. Like a clash of two worlds, the collective breath has been knocked out of the room and not even the clock pinned to the wall can cut through the sheer volume of silence.

At last, Yoongi gathers himself and stretching out the phone, he makes sure that his tone is nothing but utterly monotone.

“It’s ______________.”

Jimin grows deathly pale. His widened eyes jump from the phone in Yoongi's hands to Yoongi himself and like a deer in headlights, he keeps standing still. If his dry lips part to mutter something, no sound leaves him. The only thing he can muster is an awkward incline to indicate some kind of bow. Yoongi cards him back the phone, pretending he can’t hear your voice repeatedly questioning “hello?” on the other line and quickly steps out of the room.

It takes him three more hours than usual to get home. By that time you’re soundly asleep, clutching at the shirt Yoongi had so carelessly discarded on the bed this very morning. He quite earnestly wishes to go back to that moment, call in sick and not let either of you move out of the bed.

Despite him most definitely not wanting to, the smile creeping on his face is by now an instinctual. You could make him beam like a spring sunshine by just waking up. He loves you he knows that. He loves Jimin and Jimin as it turns out loves you. The question is of course — do you love Jimin as well?

Maybe he could…share?

“No, no,” Yoongi shakes his head, muttering to himself in the pale yellow light of the nightlamp. “What the fuck am I even thinking?”

How would that work? He gets you from Monday to Thursday only to then card you over to Jimin for the remaining week?

Glimpsing at you slumbering, half-nestled underneath the duvet, he can’t help but shudder. If you would ever learn what he just thought, it wouldn’t matter whether you love Jimin or not, because sure as hell Yoongi wouldn’t be alive to learn that fact.

Safe to say, he doesn’t get a wink of sleep.

As Yoongi tiredly observes you getting ready, there is an aggravating, oozing cut on his heart and every single action of yours pokes a big salted thumb right in its middle. Did you made your hair with the same level of precision when you went on a date with him? Did you dig through numerous outfits as desperately for him, trying, no, feeling the need to look good?

By the time, you’re done, he’s sitting on the bed, bleeding dry. Still, there are some things to consider — you were getting ready in his bedroom, it was his shirt you were pulling over your head and it was his initials hanging on a dainty chain down your neck.

… as it turns out, a drunken second date could lead to many things, be it a custom jewelry or a tattoo of someone’s name on their back or…left butt cheek, to be more precise.

You had a history together and he could only hope that it meant something to you.

“I’m going to meet up with—”

“Jimin after work.”

You swerve to gander at him, frowning as you do so but Yoongi doesn’t explain how he knows you will. Only wishes a succinct “don’t be out too late” and lets you out of his grasp.

It wasn’t like him to chain anyone down and you wouldn’t love him if he did. This is one of those things he just has to trust you with and maybe in time, he’ll learn to trust Jimin again.

True to your promise, when the clock strikes six you’re not at home like you usually would be. At first seven passes, then eight, then nine. Yoongi still gives you the benefit of the doubt. But when the clock starts crawling half past eleven, his knee cannot stop bouncing and his mouth cannot stop gnawing on his own nails. However, just when he no longer can stand the veritable avalanche of anxiety bucking him under, you drag yourself through the door. All complaints and accusations swiftly evaporate from the tip of his tongue as Yoongi takes in just how dead you appear. Your expression is permanently frozen in a state of hurt confusion so much so that when Yoongi slides the jacket over your shoulders, you don’t seem to notice his presence.

It’s only around one in the morning, when staring at a steaming mug of warm tea, you dare to whisper the revelation Yoongi already knows.

“Jimin said he’s in love with me.”

“I know.”

He cringes as the hurt in your eyes now finds him. Sweet heaven, how could Jimin ever do this.

“You knew?” incredulously, you question. “You knew and you didn’t bother to tell me?”

“It was not my secret to tell,” firmly, he replies. “And you know that.”

“But you don’t know how he looked!” you continue, steadily working yourself up to an angered hiss. “He said he loves me and hates himself for it. The last thing he wants to do is to hurt you. You know he thinks of you like a brother.”

Dragging a tired palm over his face, Yoongi whispers that he does know that.

“Anyway, Jimin told me that he has no intention of butting in our relationship,” you conclude numbly and while Yoongi is happy to hear it, the same delight is overshadowed by worry. Was Jimin drinking? Was he somewhere unsafe in Seoul right now?

Seemingly being able to read his mind, you answer before the question is even poised.

“I made sure Jungkook picks him up and looks after him,” you sigh, pushing the mug away. It was completely full. “He wanted to apologize to you for doing this.”

“Via you?”

You sigh once more and somehow it’s even heavier.

“I don’t think that he can bear to look at you right now.”

Yoongi’s gaze darts to sit on the edge of the kitchen table, it lays there dull and lifeless up until you reach to gently wrap a hand around his palm.

“We’ll be okay,” you reassure him with a smile far too meagre to be convincing. “All of us will be okay. In time.”

It takes approximately a week for Yoongi to run into Jimin. They cross each other's paths in a hallway next to the exit doors. What sparse conversation they share is gone as soon as it starts. Yoongi takes in the exhausted, heartbroken look that seems to devour Jimin whole and all he manages to wrangle out is an understanding “I’m sorry” spoken at a distance.

Jimin gives him a tight-lipped smile and a nod, before putting back his headphones and stalking out into the rain soaked street with a downward gaze.

Yoongi hopes that it will be, as you said, all okay in due time.

SEOKJIN | Hoseok’s entry level of amusement had always been on the floor. Thus seeing him nearly double over in a peel of roaring laughter is not by any means an unusual sight. But...

Jin’s gaze slides over to you, standing next to a positively beaming Hoseok. You were funny, Hoseok liked funny.

And he also liked you.

Which wouldn’t be a problem if not for the tiny fact that you and Jin already have matching bands around your fingers and that you are in fact undeniably, irrevocably the love of his life.

So…there’s that.

Though sitting back and simply observing feels somehow wrong, what else is he supposed to do? Going over there and punching Hoseok in the teeth is not only something he would not usually do but also, in Jin’s mind, it wasn’t even close to being productive — so what else is there?

And yes maybe it does irk him.

“Gosh, it looks like a painting,” you sigh contently, gazing over the rolling grass and clumps of disorganised mountains in the background.

“I know, a real masterpiece,” Hoseok agrees but his heart-shaped gaze is not found on said clumps of mountains or the tufts of white clouds rolling above. It's firmly planted on you and so it has been for quite some time.

Yes, it does irk him, knowing that his brother, practically flesh and blood in all the accounts that it mattered, would betray him but even so the last thing Jin wants is to tell you. There was no doubt about it — the knowledge would break your heart.

At first, you’d blame yourself, concocting in your mind that somehow this was solely just your doing and that should any fight occur it’d be you who’d spark it and then you’d cut ties with Hoseok completely. Whatever the case may be of his feelings, Hoseok was the first one who accepted you, who welcomed you into their midst as Jin’s partner with no suspicions or walls of guarded behaviour. He’d become your ride and die and frankly, very, very frankly, Jin was just as worried whether Hoseok would survive such sudden separation.

He can’t not care for his friend and as messy as it is, his friend’s wellbeing now partially hinged on his partner’s smile.

What a shit fest.

Jin is fairly certain Hoseok will not attempt anything. The sense of shame broiling within him is so apparent that more than once someone else had caught Jin by the elbow, wondering whether they have had a fight.

They haven’t, monotonously, he replies each and every time, but he doesn’t insist it’s all good either.

Regardless, the fact is he hasn’t spoken with Hoseok for…quite some time. His contact number has traversed from the usual "recently dialled" to possibly being outdated.

“Hey, you’re not sick, are you?” the sound of your worried voice at last rouses Jin from the literal plague of thoughts buzzing around. For good measure, you put your palm on his forehead, trying to gauge the temperature.

Jin wrangles it away, for a moment considering whether to kiss it. Hoseok is looking.

He chooses to hold your hand instead, his finger lingering on the promise ring.

“I’m okay, don’t worry.”

“You’ve just been really quiet ever since we got here.”

“I’m overwhelmed by the sheer amount of struggles you have to go through.”

Your brow wrinkles and you gaze down on Jin whose been slowly or not so slowly sipping his whiskey by the fire pit.

“Struggles?” you echoe confused and Jin gives a sage nod.

“I’m already so beautiful every single moment but out here — in our forest get together… I can’t even imagine how you cope. I must be absolutely enthralling.”

There’s a solid minute of absolute silence before you enrupt in fond laughter.

“Don’t ever change, Jin.”

He tries to mimic your grin but it falls a touch too flat so instead his eye travels towards the onlooking Hoseok. Both hold each other’s stare before quickly turning away.

“I definitely won’t,” absent-mindedly, Jin mumbles under the nose.

HOSEOK | It just had to be Namjoon.

“Well, at least it’s not Jungkook,” Namjoon breathes a demure laugh.

If Hoseok had any heart to pummel him through the ground, he would.

“Motherfucker, really?!”

“I’m sorry.”

It truly was a curse to see someone as human. Because no matter how mad Hoseok was at Namjoon, he could not rid himself of a kid's image in this man. A kid who always was beside him. A kid with all the big dreams and all the wrong approaches to those dreams. Still, Namjoon had a kind heart and there was no one more dedicated to fixing their wrongs than him. Hoseok presumes it was this same dedication that had brought his best friend to his doorstep with a bottle of whiskey in hand and a great big apology tumbling like vomit out of his mouth.

“They just called me to help arrange your birthday present. I promise it wasn’t any more than that.”

For what seems like the hundredth time, Namjoon rushes to explain, wearing not to subtle glimmer of delirium in his eye.

“We met up for a coffee,” Hoseok’s eyebrow twitches and though he could have sworn it was impossible, Namjoon grows a touch paler from fear. “And we only discussed you and I left the second I could!”

“So my partner called up my best friend whose actually in love with them to discuss the plans for my birthday. Me, their partner who knows that his best friend is in love with said partner.”

All Namjoon can really do is apologetically rub the back of his neck all while trying (and failing) to inconscpicously inch closer towards the doors.

“It’s messed up, I know.”

“It’s more than a little messed up, Joon,” Hoseok laughs dryly, already sensing the tepid touch of an oncoming migraine. “You haven’t told them, have you?”

Immediately, Namjoon shakes his head, the glasses perched on the top of his nose threatening to simply hurtle against the wall.

“We agreed to not tell them. I’m keeping my end of the bargain.”

And Hoseok does hate himself for it but he’s always wondered so why not ask while the opportunity is still fresh —

“Why did you agree?” he prods with what to him appears as a cautious hand. “You could have just told how you feel—”

But Namjoon is quick to interrupt.

“I don’t want to,” he states with no small amount of firmness. It’s the sort of resolution Hoseok has seen him wield in front of the UN, in front of difficulties he could not even comprehend. Something steel-like rests behind his gaze and Hoseok knows that whatever sort of intention Namjoon has set on you, no force of nature can lead him astray.

“I don’t want to see the pity in their eyes.”

“_____________ wouldn’t look at you with—”

“Yes, they would,” Namjoon interrupts him again, his mouth thinning into a grim line. “I wouldn’t be Namjoon the leader, Namjoon the trustworthy member, Namjoon, your,” he stammers; it’s almost imperceptible alas Hoseok just knows him too well. “Your brother but I’d be small Namjoon. I’d be Namjoon the naive fool who would require kid gloves in case any remark about the happiness of your relationship would break his heart. And I don’t want that.”

Ah.

“I want ________________,” they both know it’s a poor choice of wording but none of them is brave enough to remark upon it. “In a natural way, you know. I want to be their friend, I don’t want to make things any more complicated. So, yeah, I don’t want to tell them and perhaps,” he licks at his dry lips, briefly glimpsing outside. Unbeknowst to himself Hoseok mimicks the movement, forcing the barest sliver of a smile upon Namjoon’s face. “Nah, it is selfish but it is what it is.”

“Hmm.”

For a while they stand silent and it’s painfully awkward but also…it’s good. It’s almost unbelievable but things are actually peaceful between them.

“What does ____________ has planned for my birthday?”

Namjoon cracks a wry smile.

“I ain’t telling you that.”

The ring of Hoseok’s phone cuts the lingering tension in two and like an air escaping from a pop balloon, the room grows lax.

If a bit sad.

“Hey babe,” Hoseok greets you and Namjoon simply pretends like he isn’t here to hear that. “You’re waiting outside? Yeah, I’ll get going soon. Bye. Love you too.”

He doesn’t miss the way Namjoon turns away, obstinately staring at anything just to not see what currently he does not want to see. Hoseok simply lets him be.

“I’ve got to go,” he waves around some well-meaning gesture that falls flat on comfort, already halfway there to bolt out of the door. “Will you be okay?”

He watches Namjoon scuff the shoe against the floor. It’s a tad too angry for someone who will undoubtedly insist on being utterly okay.

“Yeah, of course!” Namjoon brushes him off, feigning indifference a bit too well. “I’ll just, you know, go into my studio and write some lyrics to process my bottomless devotion to the love of your life.”

Kidding! — follows soon after.

“Sort of,” is added when Hoseok ultimately leaves the room.

JIMIN | “You should go home.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“Jimin…”

“Don’t you dare to pity me!”

“I’m not. Actually, quite the opposite.”

Jimin glowers at Yoongi across the rim of his glass but it doesn’t quite have the effect he pictured. Yoongi keeps on wearing the same unimpressed grimace he’d sat down with. He draws a great sigh for the upteenth time and begins again, a bit gentler, a bit more lenient.

Jimin doesn’t know which is worse — either way, he’s a hair away from bursting into tears.

“I didn’t expect you, out of all people, to think with your fists instead of your brain.”

And just like that, the tears evaporate.

“He tried to take them away,” he whispers, voice shaking from the barely concealed rage. Not even at Jungkook’s feelings per se but rather at his sheer audacity. Jimin would understand if he would just fall in love with you, he would understand, he knows how easy it was to love you, to be consumed by you but to go—!

“He went behind my back!” he cries out loudly, instantly drawing the attention to their small table. “He went and asked to be given a chance!”

The frown on Yoongi’s face deepens and seeing such an opening Jimin reaches out and does what he knows best. He pours himself a drink, knocks it down into his throat and hopes he’ll pass out soon.

Yoongi bats at his arm, steadily growing redder and redder from the frustration alone.

“Stop drinking!” he chides with an irritated hiss. “I’m not excusing Jungkook’s actions. But you know how he is.”

“And thus I’m supposed to forgive him for trying to fuck my fucking partner?!”

Once again, all eyes sit on their table as Jimin’s voice rises into an angered scream.

“Yeah, and look at you now. You’ve traded fists with your best friend, gotten yourself a busted lip and _______________ has moved out and honestly good for them. I also wouldn’t want to stand you clowns.”

“You’re supposed to be comforting me,” Jimin scoffs but receives nothing but an ill-meaning glare back.

“I’m all out.”

When at long last Jimin gets home, it’s well past three in the morning. His head is spinning and not so small part of him regrets ever drinking. The alcohol is clawing back up his throat and it doesn’t care that he’s putting a palm in front of his mouth. He’s about to vomit it all back out.

“Jesus,” a blur of a voice calls above him and Jimin finds himself being hastily carded to the toilet. He wonders who it is — it couldn't be you, you wouldn’t be able to lug him around like a roll of wet paper towels but he simply doesn’t have the time to care about it. As the next thing that comes out of his mouth is not a question poised, eloquenty or not, but a steady stream of stomach acid and half-digested fragments of his piss-poor dinner. His faceless saviour brushes the hair back from his forehead, occasionally laying an empathetic pat on his back. Though his mouth of full of bile, Jimin tries to say he appreciates it.

The sun greets him vicious and unforgiving. His head pounds and for the longest part of an hour, Jimin doesn’t even recall on how he made it back into his bed. Spotting a full glass of water and painkillers, he both chugs it all down and prays to heaven that it is you. Someone’s definitely clambering around his kitchen. The noise of a pan on a stove is unmistakanable regardless of the state he’s in.

Cautiously, Jimin pads over to the kitchen, attempting to put together at least two phrases of a genuine apology but the sight he sees only further spikes the nausea gripping him whole.

Unless you suddenly grew a mullet, got an armful of tattoos, a lip piercing and a cosmetic surgery, he’s fairly sure that it isn’t you standing by a stove and cooking a pan of eggs but one Jeon Jungkook.

Jeon Jungkook the traitor.

Jeon Jungkook the one Jimin thought was a friend.

Best friend in fact.

In spite of how hard Jimin tries to eviscerate Jungkook with his glare, he cannot help but cringe as the man whips around, showcasing his black eye. Instinctually, Jimin runs a tongue over his lip. It still hurts.

There is a pregnant pause during which they don’t speak, merely stay in their respective corners of the room. Jungkook shifts from one foot to another, white knuckling the handle of the pan.

“I made you some eggs,” he splutters, hopefully presenting the food. Ever so slowly, Jimin lowers his gaze towards them and quirks a brow in order to show just how unfettered he is by it.

“I’ll vomit them back in your face,” he states coldly and Jungkook all but withers into himself.

“Listen, man, I know that I overstepped some boundaries—”

“Some?!” at once, Jimin has to clutch at his head to make sure it simply does not implode.

“All of the boundaries,” he corrects. "And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I betrayed your trust and __________’s trust, and I know that neither of you owe me your forgiveness.”

Jimin pries open one of his eyelids — it’s swollen and laced with sleep but even so he knows Jungkook and he knows Jungkook wasn’t capable of lying.

He truly is sorry.

“Why the change of heart?” Jimin barks mistrustfully. “Since when do you care for anything but yourself?”

It’s a low blow but damn if it does not delight him, to hurt Jungkook just as much as Jimin was hurt.

“________________,” Jungkook sighs, his nose scrunching up at what is certainly a recollection of some exceedingly sour memories. “Chewed me the fuck out. They said—” his breath hitches. In a still moment between one breath and the next, there is a single, utterly pathethic plea ringing in Jimin’s ears—

Please, dont take them away from me

“They said they were disgusted by me.”

He has to physically bite his tongue to not say “I’m sorry”. It’s just as instinctual for him to comfort Jungkook as it is for their younger one to seek that same comfort. For a brief moment, he sees a much younger Jungkook. A much younger Jungkook come to beg for understanding and Jimin himself, feels much younger. Much more ill-equipped to deal with Jungkook’s fragile heart.

But that moment disappears and with it the breadth of his anger.

It’s churning, he knows it is, he doesn’t deny it but he reckons that step by step, day by cautious day they’ll be able to calll each other friends again and greet you back home, inhabiting their rightful roles.

You would say they're a broken pot with its cracks glued by gold.

Yoongi would say they’re fucking morons.

TAEHYUNG | Dearest ____________________,

Let me preface this by saying, I know it’s inappropriate and I know it’s unfair for me to spring this on you. I must seem like a coward to you and that’s beacause I am one. Million times I must have tried to tell you, to be able to say IT to your face but I just can’t. I don’t care what you do with this letter, burn it if you must, destroy it if it brings you peace but a part of me reasons that people deserve to know when one loves them and so I tell you.

I love you.

I love you insanely. I love you devoutly but most of all I want to love you selflessly so I won’t ask of you anything don’t worry. I won’t ask of you to meet me, I won’t ask of you to let me down, gently or otherwise, I won’t ask of you to even look at me. I burn for you, I yearn for you but I also know you love Taehyung. I see your love for him as clear as I see my own so I understand I don’t have a place in your life. I don’t even dare to ask of you such a thing.

You may wonder why even write this at all? Well, for me this is a speech. A speech one would give at a funeral. I scream and I vomit all that I feel and with it, with every stroke of this stupid pen I hammer in a nail into a coffin of all the fondness I hold for you. With any luck, I’ll be able to return to it rarer and rarer until at last it’s swallowed by moss and will lay unrecognizable. With any luck, the scar will heal and will be just that — a painless scar left by idiocy of youth.

I don’t want you to find me, I don’t want you to know me, all I want is for you and Taehyung to be happy. Oh, Taehyung, if only I could also say how sorry I am for ever letting him down.

So please be happy _______________. Be the happiest a person has ever been so I can rest easy and breathe a little easier each day, knowing that none of us has made a grave mistake.

Sincerely,

Your secret admirer.

Quite the letter, Taehyung reckons, closing it shut once he finishes tracing the inked lines. The thick black of the room is cut only by the orange flames licking at the firewood in the old fireplace. Glancing quietly across the shoulder, he finds you sleeping soundly on the hotel bed, hair splattered messily across the pillowcase. Taehyung supresses a deep sigh of relief before turning back with a heavy frown etched upon his face.

He took you away just in time, whoever this secret admirer was, he clearly held something more than a casual crush. When did he have the time to slip this into your bag, Taehyung did not know but it scared the shit out of him. The only people who both knew of his sudden trip to France and had the opportunity to see you were his members. His friends. His brothers. Which meant that one of them betrayed him. For one of them your name on their lips was not something easy to be spoken. For one of them your name was a benediction, meant to be sighed in shameful isolation.

The poetics said Namjoon but don’t find me said Yoongi. Loving insanely was Jungkook wanting to love selflessly was Jimin. But who could possibly know — maybe it was Hoseok, maybe it was Jin — Taehyung certainly didn’t.

He gazed down onto the thin paper, lips curling in distaste. Whoever he was, he should have just kept it to himself. For the first time, Taehyung was happy in his relationship, secure even and here he comes, one of his family, tearing it down.

Perhaps he should do what this admirer said — forget about it. No one wants to hate their family, right?

Yes, he thinks to himself, I’ll forget about. I’ll try really, really hard.

It was a good letter, beautiful even, he has to admit that much.

Shame though, he doesn’t hesitate to toss it into the flames, ______________won’t ever read it.

JUNGKOOK | “Baby, please.”

Jungkook loathes the fact at how weak he grows underneath your touch. Where others would give him a wide berth, all in fear of incuring a foul mood, you merely have to wrap your arms around his back and he feels the tension unlatching its jaw from his shoulders.

“Just talk to Jin.”

“Don’t even mention his name,” he growls, trying to sound pissed but his body has a mind of its own. It reaches to tug you closer around him, almost frightened that should he let you go for just a second, he could lose you.

“He came forward with how he felt,” you reason slowly, cautiously. “He was honest and just let it all out.”

“He should have choked with it,” Jungkook refutes. You don’t buy it.

“You don’t mean that.”

Jungkook knows you know he knows he doesn’t mean it but for the time being he just wants to be angry.

He turns to look over his shoulder, finding you nuzzled into his spine, swaying slighty from left to right. His heart swells with all this…love he held for you. Whatever Jin held was nothing but a cheap copy, a fling, a failure of the brain.

“You’re mine, got it,” he tries to warn you but you all but laugh at the pout in his tone. “I don’t care how handsome you think Jin is, you promised me forever first. Finders keepers and all that.”

“You’re a bit delusional, you know that?” you rub your nose against his jumper, spectacularly failing at trying to supress the smirk fighting its way onto your face.

“So what?” he scoffs, turning to scrub the dishes with far more vigour than neccessary. “It makes me happy.”

But your voice of “just talk to Jin” doesn’t leave the side of his ear. Like an overzealous mosquito it buzzes around his head at all hours of the day, at all hours of the night, round and round until Jungkook swears it makes his nose bleed.

It’s well past midnight when he finally musters up the courage to press the dial button to Jin’s number. His knee refuses to sit still and behind his back he’s crossing his fingers hoping that his friend will be asleep.

He is not.

When Jin replies with a timid “hello” he is surprisingly coherent as though he hadn’t slept at all.

“_______________ told me to give you a call,” Jungkook grouses instead of a greeting and the other line of the phone grows uncomfortably quiet.

“They’re too kind,” Jin whispers and Jungkook certainly agrees on it.

He taps his leg, bites his lip, looks at you for guidance — you’re asleep on his bed, practically knocked out because Jungkook just had to…show his love for you — and none of it helps him to get over this sudden knot growing at the base of his throat.

However, Jin beats it to him.

“I know I said it already,” he mutters miserably, voice crackingi across the connection. “But for what it’s worth, I really am sorry for doing this to you Jungkook. I wish nothing but happiness for you and _______________.”

They cry, they curse, they share their love for you and some three hours later it’s somewhat easier to breathe. The days, the weeks that Jungkook couldn’t sleep, plagued by nightmares of his light being stolen away, are wiped away with a cool hand and he rejoices in the comfort it provides. He doesn’t say I love you to Jin, he’s not yet ready for that but he knows Jin knows and he knows that Jin knows that he knows.

For now he just wants to sleep. Putting the phone away, Jungkook drops himself back into the pillow, heaving a drawn-out sigh up against the black ceiling. He wraps his arm around your waist, kissing your neck “good night” as he always does. It’ll be alright, he reminds himself, surprisingly, it’ll all be just fine.

tagging: @pinkcherrybombs; @sukunabitch; @btsiguess-kpop; @belladaises; @seok-jinnies; @themochiverse; @cuteipat; @ratherbefangirling; @manchuria; @dreamamubarak; @anti-social-mochi; @back2bluesidex; @silverliningsandstorms; @ahewlett; @royallyjjk

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preeningpisces · 1 month

Text

Choso NSFW Headcanons

Lemme know if you want me to elaborate/write something about any of these ♥️

18+ content below, mdni, implied chubby f!reader

❥ Choso is extremely submissive in the way that he will do whatever you want in bed. If you want to be dominated, through your guidance and some trial & error, he’ll do it for you happily. If you want to tie him up & make him cry, he’ll gladly cry the prettiest tears for you

❥ You have to remind him he needs to discover his own wants & desires, rather than going along with whatever you want

❥ Can be very dirty because he doesn’t really have a sense of shame when it comes to sex. For instance, he sees licking your neck no differently than licking your foot, and is confused when you react negatively. He wasn’t exactly raised with any societal/cultural influences on his sexuality

❥ He does some odd shit like bite your armpit and when you chastise him he turns into the sad hamster meme

❥ We all know he busts in like 3 seconds, does it need to be said? He can’t help it—his dick is brand new, fresh off the shelf

❥ Bro cannot get enough when you first start having sex together; he can be pushy at times LOL but will relent & be respectful if you ask him to

❥ Very INTENSE. He prefers positions where he can make eye contact, and this mfer will stare into your soul the whole time. Also likes positions where he can get your tits in his mouth

❥ Doesn’t tend to be playful in bed, but will try to match your energy if you are

❥ Period sex makes him go craaaaazy. He’s all up in there in every way. He earns his red wings immediately

❥ I know in my soul that he’s hairy. He’s a hairy guy! No way he isn’t. Exfoliate your face with his hairy titties

❥ Lowkey into body hair himself, and doesn’t get why people are so obsessed with shaving. Likes feeling your legs when they get prickly, or if the hair is grown out. Absolutely LOVES an 80s bush

❥ On that note, anything that is naturally so human gets him going, like sweat. Kind of into musk too. He’s the type that likes it when you’ve marinated a bit LMFAO kind of pouts if you insist on showering before he goes down on you. So cute

❥ His cum doesn’t shoot, it leaks, and there’s a fuck ton of it. Stroking him through his orgasm is really fucking messy, and really fucking hot

❥ Oh my god he is awful at dirty talk at the beginning, bitch has NO CLUE what to say

❥ He learns tho, don’t you fret. Like I said, he doesn’t really get embarrassed when it comes to sex, but he also has no concept of what’s considered sexy and what’s not. You just have to survive the awkward stage (and maybe share some source material for him to reference)

❥ Fucking loves titties. Even when you aren’t having sex, just cuddling, that’s where he likes to rest his hands the most. If you have heavy tits he’ll offer to support them for you. It’s a genuine act of kindness, but also one he benefits from greatly. Rests his head on your chest when he needs to unwind

#Choso smut #choso x reader #choso x you #choso x chubby reader #chubby reader #divider by k1ssyoursister #dreams of choso ☁︎#headcanons ☽#choso headcanons #dreams ☽#wet dreams ☽

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aakeysmash · 1 month

Text

Roommate or boss?

Pairing: f!reader x Katsuki Bakugou.

Previous part: part 4.

Next part: part 6.

A/N: High School Musical references (watch the movies!!!). I recommend you to read part 1 again, because a lot of references I made here are also said in the first chapter. This could look like a filler chapter, but it’s really important for future developments!

Word count: 2.2k.

You’re relaxing on your bed on a deserved day off, brand new AC on and a cold glass of orange juice in your hand. You’re scrolling on your phone, chuckling at various memes and sending most of them to Ochaco, who will probably complain about finding 62 videos from you and having to react to each one. You’re planning on doing absolutely nothing today, just munching on snacks and sleeping. Maybe you’re going to put on that show you’ve been wanting to see. This is the life, you think.

“FUCK THIS SHIT!”

You’re startled out of your mind, again. Katsuki has been screaming at the top of his lungs since this morning, but you don’t even know the reason why. You hear his stream of curses from the wall between your rooms.

You’re very annoyed: he’s ruining your perfect day off. How dare he. You throw punches on the wall for the upteenth time, hoping he will stop or go outside to do whatever is bugging him.

“Stop fucking doing that!” He screams back at you, and you get even angrier. You decide you had enough, so you get up from your bed and march towards his room. You throw his door open without caring about his privacy.

He snaps his head towards you, scowling worser than usual.

“D’you ever heard about fucking knocking?” He barks at you. He looks disheveled: his usually spiky hair is a mess, and you assume he keeps on yanking it; you can feel his eye bags, and he probably didn’t have a good night of sleep in two weeks.

“Damn, you look bad” you mumble looking at him from head to toe. You lose a bit of your anger and almost feel bad. Almost.

“Well, I don’t care, you’re ruining my perfect day, so if you need to scream go out” you say glaring at him.

“This is my fucking house too” he snarls. “If I want to scream because I don’t want to do this shit, then I’m gonna do it. You’re free to leave and never return” he responds looking you up and down. He’s got a point.

You scoff. Sometimes he really has the audacity to speak when he shouldn’t be speaking. “What are you even doing? What’s this big thing that’s bothering you so much?”.

He grits his teeth and stays silent. The way he doesn’t want you to know the reason why he’s so angry just makes you become more curious. Oh, I’m about to get so annoying when I find out. Just so you wait, Katsuki.

“Come on, don’t be a kid. Let’s make a deal: I’ll make you a cup of hot chocolate if you tell me” you try to bribe him. In one of his nicest moments, he complimented the way you know how to “make it just right”, just to take it back immediately after noticing those words left his mouth. Also, your roommate likes to eat and drink hot things even if it’s summer. He’s a weirdo.

He looks conflicted. He really wants a sweet treat, and he knows that he’s not capable of doing it the way you do (he already tried and failed). He blames it on the fact you keep on saying that you add a secret ingredient that he doesn’t know, because there’s just no way he’s not good at doing everything he puts his mind into. He ponders about it for what feels like 3 minutes, where you both stay completely silent.

“I’ll even add whipping cream.”

You try suppressing your grin: he’s sold, you see it in the way he grits his teeth even harder. “I’m revising my thesis’ grammar.”

You instantly become smug, all your anger forgotten. Bingo. “The big buff Bakugou Katsuki is mad about some grammar? Really? I thought you were stronger than that, pussy” you tease him with a smirk on your face.

He tries throwing you one of the books he keeps on his desk, but you dodge it. Then you lean on his door and cross your arms, while he goes on and screams “GET OUT! You’re bothering me even more”.

“Stop screaming, oh my god”, you whine. “What would it take for you to return being the quiet kid at the back of the class? You’re so annoying like this” you say exhausted. You get one day off in 3 weeks, there is no way he’s ruining it. You’re finding joy in annoying him, though, it’s so fun.

“I was never the quiet kid, I ain’t no loser like you. Get the fuck out of my room” he bites back. He doesn’t need to know it, but you were indeed the quiet kid.

“Well, guess I won’t help you then” you reply, shrugging. You didn’t even ask if he wanted your help, and you didn’t come in his room to help him, but now you’re just rubbing in his face that you can go and do absolutely nothing for the rest of the day, while he boils himself away in his despair.

You start closing his door, yawning and teasing him some more. “Continue screaming while I go and watch Love Island without you”. You have to turn around to hide your expression.

You hear him curse under his breath. “Fuck, wait, I really wanna see that”, he says, sounding desperate. “Aren’t you enrolled in literature or some shit?”.

You face him with the biggest devious smile you can muster. “Yeah, why?”

The vein on his forehead is about to pop. “How good are you at correcting grammar?”, he says.

You look like you won the lottery. “Ooooh you want my help? Do you want me to revise your little thesis for you? Little ol’ me? Weren’t you saying to get the fuck out?” You say walking towards his still sitting form. He’s super rigid, like asking you to help him is requiring him all the strength of the world and the planets and the solar system together. He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. He tries the breathing exercises they taught him in highschool to manage his fury, when he really started managing his anger issues. You’re getting on his last nerves, but revising all he wrote in months is also getting on his nerves.

“Can you at least pretend to not enjoy this as much as you currently are? You’re a devil” he spits out. Well, he could’ve said something meaner, so the breathing exercises must have worked a little.

“Mean. I guess you don’t want my help then”, you respond, feigning innocence.

“Let’s make one thing clear: I’m a boss at doing shit like this. I’m just tired of doing it, ‘cause I’ve been at it for a day straight. I’m good at everything, so you’ll probably find a comma that I forgot to type, not much more than that”, he adds, glaring up at you. You’re now standing next to him, but the fact he’s still sitting has you staring at him from above. This simple act is driving him insane: if he’s not in control he gets antsy, and you seem to know it, because you’re standing really proud.

You decide on dropping the facade a little, because you enjoy revising things. And he does look exhausted.

“Sure, send me the file and I’ll look into it” you say. Now you’re going outside of his room to make his chocolate, but he thinks you’re just running away.

“Wait. What do you want in return?” He says squinting at you. There’s no way she’s doing it because she’s nice, he thinks.

You look at him, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Don’t fucking “huh” me. What do you want? Why are you doing this?” He responds, serious.

You raise one eyebrow and stay silent for a bit, then you tell him “Because I’m nice? Have you ever heard about kindness? Not everything is a transaction, business man” then you close his door without waiting for an answer, leaving him confused and somewhat angry.

You start doing his hot chocolate while singing to yourself, when suddenly his door is thrown open and he exits it, staring at you.

“Tell me what you want” he says coming closer to you and crossing his arms. It sounds more like a statement than a question.

You look at him and respond “Tell me what you neeeed”, singing.

“What the fuck are you saying?”

“High School Musical? That one scene in the second film where they all sing in the kitchen? Really?” You ask, and he looks confused.

“I’ve never seen those films. They look pathetic.” He responds, rolling his eyes and looking at you putting whipping cream on his hot chocolate. You look shocked, and you hang your mouth open.

“You’ve never seen High School Musical?!” You almost scream.

He winces, rubs his ears and then proceeds to say “What’s so weird about it? It’s not like it’s a cult or something”.

“Yes! Yes it is! You know what? We’re going to watch it right now. And you can’t refuse, or I won’t revise your thesis” you tell him while poking him in the chest. Soft.

He kisses his teeth, huffs and goes to sit himself on the couch.

“I knew you weren’t doing it for free, manipulator” he glares at you.

You shrug, while putting his cup in front of him and bringing him some cookies. He mumbles a thanks, relaxing.

“I was going to help you regardless, but if I can make you suffer it’s funnier” you tell him, positioning yourself next to him and stealing one of the biscuits you brought for him.

“You’re such a bitch.”

“A bitch who’s going to do your work, so shut up and watch people fall in love in highschool” you bite back. You both roll your eyes.

Neither to say, he hates the movies with a passion. He thinks that high school is portrayed poorly, that Gabriella is the real villain, that they’re all pretentious bitches, that Troy should’ve went away because none of them were truly his friends since they weren’t supporting him.

You keep on huffing while he tells you all these “that”s.

“Katsuki, it’s not like it’s reality. It’s a musical. Just focus on the songs and the love, damn” you whine while throwing a punch at his bicep. He doesn’t budge and your hand hurts.

“That’s not my definition of love” he simply states.

“Yeah? And what’s your definition of love?” You ask him, curious.

He raises one of his eyebrows. “Why would I share something like that with you?”.

“Because I’m doing your work. And we’re friends. Sort of. And you like my chocolate” you respond, while blushing a little. You know you tend to be a little too curious and nosey, but it’s just because you pay a lot of attention to details. Details are everything to you. You’re quick to backtrack seeing his hostile behaviour towards this topic, and you start saying that it’s not a big deal and you should’ve minded your business, when he interrupts you.

“And what is your definition of love?”

He looks relaxed, like asking this isn’t that bothersome. Like he wants you to know you too. Like he cares, in some way.

“Love is a lot of things for me” you resort to say. Just how much can you be specific without scaring him away?

“Yeah, you’re waiting for me to talk about it first. I get it, dumbass. I’m not very good with words on this aspect though, so I’m sorry, but your curiosity won’t be quelled” he responds, rolling his eyes. From the start of this conversation he hasn’t stopped breathing normally, almost as if this is a regular conversation for him. He hasn’t stopped looking at you, too, but you’re trying to ignore that.

“Then let’s make a deal. Saturday we’re picking a thing that we think helps us explain what we think about love” you burst out. He’s about to protest, but you’re not finished.

“Love as in general love! Love can be outside of romantic relationships too, so let’s settle on love between friends! I’d never go out with you like that” you add. You jump out of the couch. You feel like you might catch on fire if you stay near him one more second. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you like you’re something he wants to dissect.

“Okay” he simply responds. You’re dumbfounded.

“Really? You’re okay with this? I thought you were going to say no” You say.

“Yeah, but let’s say that we can both decide on either going out or staying in. This is not a date, you said it yourself, so I don’t see a problem with it. It will just be like one of our movie nights, it’s not like we never spend time together, dumbass” he says, getting up and stretching his hand towards you.

“So? Are you in? Or are you scared of doing something much less meaningful than me?” He tells you, smirking.

You glare at him and compose yourself. Then, you stretch his hand.

“Deal.”

Taglist:

@perfectsukii @sleepykittycx @what-the-jams @bakunianadecorazon @vensunzy @eyesforbkg @bffrrufr @imas1mpp @cold-deep-water @peonies-and-teacakes @berryvioo

I couldn’t tag the ones in pink :(

#bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha #and they were roommates #bakugo fluff #barista au

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erensonly · 2 months

Note

You know how ghost always has his mask on, what would be reader reaction seeing ghosts face for the first time but in a way she doesn't know its him and she goes like "who the fuck is that??? 🤨🤨🤨🤨"

🍒anon

butcher shop buddies (simon riley x reader)

i dont know why i laughed so hard at this. thanks for the ask!! oh can i call you cherry-berry anon?

warnings: fluff, ooc ghost, not proofread sorry, use of 'pretty' and 'cute', no use of pronouns but i may use them in future parts, dad joke, probably incorrect butcher information, i was hungry writing this.

please feel free to message me and let me know if i missed any warnings

----

maybe reader is a civvie and she frequents this one particular butcher shop so you can get meat packages for cheap. this is the first time you see ghost. he's standing in front of the case of meats trying to determine which cut of steak he wanted, while you were there seeing if the people on tiktok were serious about meat packages being cheap. groceries are getting too expensive and you wanted to try your hand at birria tacos.

while taking a look around, you didn't notice the larger man inching closer to you. "d'ya know which cut you're looking for?" naturally, you flinch an take a step back. what is this mammoth of a man doing bending down to your level to help you look for meat? but his accent is silly but pleasing to listen to, so you give him a vague answer. "kinda," you say with a shrug.

"i heard they do these packages of meats that can last me a while. and i've been craving birria tacos, so i need beef for that as well." he silently just leads you to the other side of the case and starts talking to the man standing there. it's like they've known each other for a while. you tune them out to make sure you have everything else checked off of your mental grocery list. when you tune back in, the butcher is slicing some meats up and the man was still standing there.

"thank you so much for your help." this was directed at both men, but only the butcher responded with a "you're welcome" while the other man just nodded at you, before taking his purchase and leaving the store. what a strange man.

this is how you guys started to see each other at least once a month at the same butcher shop/supermarket. he had introduced himself to you as ghost before telling you that you could call him simon. he was actually a kinda funny guy. easy to misunderstand his jokes if you dwell on it too long, but also easy to laugh at if you share the same sense of dry humor. he didn't have much to say at first, cracking jokes at the wrong times, but other than that, there was nothing else for him to say.

i feel like ghost doesn't stop yapping around people that he's comfortable with. like he talks about everything and nothing at the same time. this is how you came to find out that he was in the military, he has family but they're the men from his task force, he travels for work often, and knows every dad joke to ever exist. he's a simple man.

he thrives on routine and familiarity. he makes it a habit to meet you once or twice a month at the shops, go grab a coffee -tea for him- and have a good conversation before going about his day. you ask for his number so you can communicate with him outside of your mini meet-ups and he agrees. now you send whatever meme made you laugh that day and a picture of what you were doing, and he sends you a joke of the day and picture of what he was doing.

he liked getting your cute selfies showing your outfit of the day, or the puzzle you finally completed after losing a piece a month ago, or his personal favorite pictures of you cuddled up with your cat pawl.

i feel like simon is a dog person outwardly, but he didn't realize how much he actually liked cats because he never had one growing up. so seeing you all cozy and pretty with your cat trying to escape your kiss, simon felt like he finally had something to look forward to. now he wanted you to see him for him.

when you walk into the shop, you're expecting simon to be waiting at the counter like he always did, chatting it up with his butcher friend. but instead, you see a blonde man with a black medical mask on talking to the butcher. maybe he's just late.

you walk to your normal spot to wait when the man turns to you and speaks. "how ya doin' today, love?" it startled you. who is this man and why is his voice familiar and why is he so attractive. "who the hell are you?" you couldn't help the confusion on your face; why is he talking to you. he just laughs and laughs, obviously finding your confusion hilarious.

"what did baby corn say to mama corn?" you were more confused. who's baby and mama corn? "go on," you encourage.

"where's pop corn?" this set you off. laughing louder than you probably should. "simon, how are you, darling?" you both had endearing names for each other even though you were just friends. it just came naturally.

"hungry. wanna stop at this one diner i know? they have amazing burgers."

that's how you find yourself eating a cheeseburger with simon who has taken his mask off by now. he was a very attractive man, not that you doubted it before. sharp square shaped jawline, crooked nose from being broken too many times, beautiful honey brown eyes contrasted by his long blonde lashes. he had a mole on the side of his nose, and scars on his face but they only added to his ruggedness; his attractiveness.. it didn't help that he was 6"4 with big strong arms, nice sized pecs, and on the rare occasion he would send you a mirror selfie without a hoodie on, you could see through his shirt that he had a nice soft belly. (my personal favorite build)

you were glad he was comfortable enough with you to be willingly vulnerable with you. maybe this relationship could escalate so much more.

----

should i make more parts to this? i already have a few ideas.

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l0v3tast3 · 10 months

Note

ooh can i request a 141 witha reader that has bad abandonment issues and needs constant reassurance?

if it’s to much please then don’t do it, don’t wanna make you write something you don’t want to

but if you do mwah ily! ❤️❤️

as someone with severe abandonment issues. and also needs constant reassurance. thank you for this request lmao also mwah ily2 !!! (っ˘ω˘ς ) this was rlly cute to write lol also sorry this took like a month im finally trying to get caught up on requests lmaoo

✎ tags: gn!reader, young military reader, angst, mentions of violence, comfort, fluff

✎ word count: 900 words (not proofread)

masterlist | requests

✧ ˖ ° they all notice it when your eyes shift towards theirs for their approval when you do well during training, when you never say "no" to whatever they ask you to do for them. they think you're just eager to please. you're the shiny new recruit to the team, beaming bright and always ready to take on your next task, so they brush it off.

✧ ˖ ° simon is the first to really figure out how deep your servitude runs, what the real reason behind it is. it's during one of your missions together, him and johnny and you in a firefight. johnny gets separated from the two of you and he can nearly feel the panic radiating off of you at the thought of your teammate, your friend, being gone. you do a good job of concealing it, of pushing through it to clear the area before you bolt to go looking for him.

✧ ˖ ° it clicks for simon so quickly because he's been where you are before. he's felt that trepidation too many times, the dread dripping cold down his spine when the other end of the radio goes silent. he's felt that same dizzying relief when you both reunite with johnny and your shoulders visibly relax. so when you're all back at base and you're hanging back while you fiddle with your gear, he pats a heavy hand on your shoulder with a gruff "y'did good, kid," before he walks away.

✧ ˖ ° kyle doesn't quite figure it out in the same depth as simon, but he picks up on the way you get nearly giddy at any kind of praise or validation and how anxious you seem to get when you think you haven't done something as well as they want you to. as he gets to know you and grows more and more fond of you, he'll make it a point to encourage you and try his best to help you build your confidence in your abilities. it's subtle and obvious at the same time, a quick "nice shot!" over the radio during missions and a huffed "are you ever gonna let me win?" while you're sparring together.

✧ ˖ ° it's not something that's spoken between you two, but you know he'll always be there for you. being the closest in age (and social media knowledge) helps you both to bond quickly and strongly when you join the team, and eventually people start joking that the two of you are attached at the hip. and it's pretty much true; when you aren't together you're texting, sending memes back and forth and talking about how bored or entertained you were in the moment. during missions, you're checking in with each other every few minutes, to the point where simon starts getting annoyed.

✧ ˖ ° price can see it in you the same way he can see it in so many of the recruits that join the military seeking purpose and approval. you're looking for a reason that others will give you to keep going, and he wants to tell you that you need to find your own reason, that you will find your own reason, but it's not something for him to explain. instead, he'll show you a gentleness that he doesn't often show; it's not outright obvious, not enough that others besides probably the rest of the 141 will notice, but it's enough that you'll see it. encouragement and very slowly helping you build your confidence is the road price takes to help you. quiet affirmations after training sessions, positive feedback surrounding the negative, a heavy hand thumping against your back when you do well- price is quiet, but he notices.

✧ ˖ ° as for johnny, well... he's not oblivious, per say, but he'll be somewhere along the "realization scale" close to kyle. it's not something that he's personally worried about himself all that much. johnny knows his talents and capabilities, and the confidence he's built up after a decade in the military is unquestionable. but you haven't had as long as him, as any of them to climb to their level of self-assurance, and he's aware of that much at least.

✧ ˖ ° when he sees you struggling internally with your self-doubt, johnny always swoops in with something to lighten your mood. he brings up that you've mastered a particular move in training already or how impressed he was that you're already able to bring himself down while sparring. johnny sticks near you when he can; he'll eat meals with you and work out with you and just enjoy your company during your free time at the base. if he sees you struggling with something during training, you become certain that he'll always pull you aside after everyone leaves and help you until you've got it down.

✧ ˖ ° as a whole, the men of the 141 task force aren't great at outright reassurance and emotional help. they're hardened soldiers who've proven their worth time and time again, but they know you haven't had a chance to yet. so with their unknowingly combined forces, they'll do their best to make sure you do get that chance, to make sure that you know how much of an irreplaceable and valuable cog in their well-oiled machine you've become.

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gonzo-rella · 24 days

Text

Headcanons: Being Wallace Wells' Trans Boyfriend

MASTERLIST | AO3 | KO-FI

Relationship(s): Wallace Wells x transmasc!reader (romantic)

Warnings/info: Trans typical stuff, like dysphoria, transphobia etc. etc., sexual remarks, he/him pronouns for reader, headcanons were written in one sitting, when I was feeling not great. (Let me know if I need to add any)

(A/N: I've been reading a lot of Succession fics over the last few days. Last night I read a Roman Roy fic and for some reason it gave me this overpowering wave of dysphoria that I still have yet to fully recover from. Annoyingly, I have yet to actually watch Succession so this could have been avoided; I just think Kieran Culkin's hot and very gender so I couldn't resist pretending that someone with his face was my boyfriend. Reading about Roman made me think 'oh shit. Maybe I'm a flawed and pathetic little guy on the inside. But I just look like a woman who likes to kiss women and everyone treats me like a girl and uses my girl name and girl pronouns and that feels super gross and makes me want to live in a hole. Now I'm going to feel bad about that for the next few days.' So, yeah, I'm having another transmasc crisis that I'm using fanfiction to get me through. I figured Kieran Culkin started this, so I might as well write something featuring a character of his that I can actually write for. This is a self-indulgent and self-explorative treat for myself, but I hope that transmasc readers can enjoy this, too. If you'd like more Wallace stuff, trans stuff or Wallace AND trans stuff, feel free to send in a request. I really want to provide more fics for transmasc readers because you guys are super underrepresented (and, y'know, Papa Gonzo-rella wants to explore his gender a little more). Also, I swear that I will get around to watching Succession, and I more than likely will end up writing for it when I do.)

Respectfully, Wallace does not give a shit that you’re trans.

Of course, he doesn’t flat-out ignore it, because it’s part of who you are, but it isn’t an obstacle in your relationship by any means, and it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

If you’re feeling dysphoric and/or otherwise insecure about yourself, he’ll pinch your cheeks and tell you how handsome and sexy you are.

If you’re feeling especially bad, like ‘not getting out of bed and hiding from the world’ bad, he’ll keep you company and say what he can to reassure you.

Being mushy and sincere truly isn’t his thing, so whatever he says will sound either slightly insensitive (but still pretty sensitive as far as Wallace goes), facetious or like he wants you to get over how you’re feeling so he can fuck you.

But, he genuinely doesn’t want you to feel bad and you can tell he cares, because otherwise he wouldn’t be there for you when you're feeling your worst.

Wallace is very affirming, but in his own Wallace way.

He lovingly refers to you as his lameass boyfriend.

If Scott ever compliments you about anything, Wallace will call him gay.

He will shout ‘gay’, like the Senor Chang meme.

"Hey, man, I like your shirt-"

"Ha, Scott's gay!"

"I-I'm not gay! I just like his shirt."

"What's wrong with being gay, Scott?"

"Nothing! There's nothing wrong with being gay!"

"You really need to work on your internalised homophobia, Scott. To think, my gay lover and I share a bed with a bigot."

If you’re doing anything that he knows will make you dysphoric or exacerbate your dysphoria (for example, scrolling through social media and looking at cis dudes that give you gender envy) he’ll shut it down.

Using the aforementioned example, he’ll snatch your phone off you and close the app, saying: “Nope. Make better decisions.”

And, while you’d initially be annoyed at him for grabbing your phone, you will appreciate it in the long run.

If you have testosterone shots but you’re not a fan of doing them yourself, he’ll begrudgingly help you with them.

He will make a very Wallace comment, though

“Stabbing? I didn’t know you were that kinky.”

If anyone’s a dick to you about being trans, Wallace is always ready to go with a snide remark about the other person, because of all the things you could possibly mock his lameass boyfriend for, being trans is at the bottom of that list.

(He should know, as the person who makes fun of you the most.)

Also, he cares about you very, very much and he doesn't want people being transphobic to his boyfriend.

If you’re cool with it, he will make trans jokes, but nothing ‘attack helicopter’ or ‘attack helicopter’ adjacent, because he’s too clever for that and he can come up with better material that isn’t just derivative, transphobic garbage.

If you get your period and it makes you at all dysphoric, be prepared for this exchange:

“Don’t worry. Scott pissed blood last month and cried about it and he’s still a man.”

“Did-did he go to the doctor?”

“I don’t know. He seems fine now, though.”

If you still have boobs and don’t mind them being touched or otherwise acknowledged, he will use them like a pillow.

If you decide to get top surgery, he will make the following request:

“Well, if you’re not using them, can I have them? I need a pillow that Scott won’t steal. And, he wouldn’t steal your tits, because he knows I’d call him gay for it.”

“Why are you like this, Wallace?”

“Selfish.”

Being trans doesn’t make your relationship much different from any of Wallace’s other relationships.

You’re just, for better or worse, another one of Wallace’s boyfriends.

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wandussyfantasy · 7 months

Text

First Date

Summary: You ask Wanda on a real date this time. A part 2 of Movie Night. And 1/3 requests from @lesbianpizza!! Thank you again for the requests!!

Request: Wanda and Y/n go on a date to a restaurant but they’re so insatiable (and at this point I think it’s confirmed that Wanda is that girl) that R starts fingering her under the table and she’s rubbing them through their pants. They end up having to leave in the middle of their meal to get their hands on each other properly

Pairings: Wanda x NB!AMAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,290

WARNINGS:

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT READ & DO NOT INTERACT!!!

smut, gn!reader amab, powerbottom!wanda, fingering, dirty talk, fluff, masturbation, public touching, fantasies, teasing, and creampie.

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey, uh,” you clear your throat nervously, “hey, Wanda.” You call her attention. You are hosting your friends over for an impromptu pool party since your parents went out of town for the weekend. You haven’t been alone with Wanda in the past couple of weeks since you took her virginity. She told you the morning after that you have to make the next move. As an overthinker, you weren’t sure what that next move should be. Plus it didn't help that this is the first time you’ve been available in two weeks. There was an important project at work and your father was over working everyone to get it done in time for the expo this weekend.

The only contact you had with Wanda was a text here and there and whatever memes and funny videos she would send you the links to. Beyond that, you haven’t had a chance to make a move or talk about what you see in the near future for your relationship. You thought about inviting only her over and then asking her out in person. Only problem was that every time you typed out the message you thought of a reason not to send it. Then you thought about going over to her house with flowers and chocolates and asking her out that way. But that didn’t feel right either.

While you were working yourself up to text her, you got a new notification of another link from her. It was one of those trends of friends jumping into a pool to a song and you laughed and asked if she wanted to come over for a swim. Not realizing it was the group chat and everyone was more than happy to come over. You didn’t know how to tell them not to, so you let it be and figured this would be the best way to ask her.

Unfortunately that left zero time for the two of you to be alone. Any chance you got to talk to her was ruined by a number of friends. Especially her twin brother, Pietro. The two of you have been friends a little longer than you and Wanda but not as close. He is protective of her and he’s aware of her crush on you. He’s also aware of your rocky dating history and he’d rather not have his sister on that long list of ex lovers. So when he catches the two of you standing a little too close for his liking, he takes the opportunity to intervene.

You find it weird that he makes his way into every conversation you fail to start but you don't think much about it. You're just grateful to be given more time to find the words to ask Wanda out. You hate how hard this task has been so far. You and Wanda used to hang out and talk about anything and everything without any awkwardness. But this added pressure to treat her as special as she deserves to be and not really knowing how to do that has become draining.

Then the perfect opportunity arises when the two of you are putting together lunch for everyone. This time the group of friends are distracted with an intense game of pool volleyball. Wanda hums in acknowledgement as she chops vegetables.“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” You finally ask.

“Sure,” she answers simply as she keeps her focus on the vegetables, “there's this movie I've been dying to show you while you've been busy. I know, I know, it kind of goes against the whole-”

“Wanda,” you interrupt her. “That's not what I meant. I um,” you bite your lip as you consider your next words carefully. You move from the kitchen island where you were preparing the meat for the burgers and make your way over to the counter where she is. “I meant like you and me, we get dressed up and go to a nice restaurant and share a meal…” you stop in front of her and lean on the counter. “I pick you up instead of us meeting there. We talk, we flirt, maybe I even get to kiss you at the end of the night.” You describe what you want to do with her instead of simply stating the simple word of what it is.

Wanda drops the knife as she tries to contain her excitement. She wants to jump up and down and scream her answer over and over but the intense look you are giving her reminds her of the night the two of you slept together and she knows now is not the time for that. “Ah so you're asking me out on a date?” She asks to clarify as butterflies flutter around in her stomach.

“Yes, I'm asking you on a proper date,” you confirm as you play with a strand of her wet hair.

“Okay,” she says in a sweet tone. “My answer is still yes. But um, Y/n, we've already slept together. You can do more than end the night with a kiss,” she leans against your body and whispers in your ear. “I have been craving your cock for two weeks.”

You gulp as you clench your hand into a fist and imagine the worst thing you can so you don't get an erection. “Well then um,” you clear your throat and step back as you get flustered. There are too many people here waiting for food. “I will um… we'll see where the night takes us.” You feel the twitching in your dick as it remembers being inside of Wanda without any barriers and it gets excited at the idea of it happening again. “I um, I need to use the restroom. Uh have Peter start the grill will you? Thanks.”

Wanda laughs to herself with a shake of her head as you slip out of the kitchen. You make your way to the restroom in your bedroom as your boner stands at attention. “Shit!” As much as you try, your thoughts aren't enough to get rid of it. So you grab the old pornographic magazine you kept hidden in the bathroom and lube up your hand with the sensation lube you keep to make yourself sensitive. Times like these didn't matter how long you lasted, you just needed to get rid of the thing.

You start stroking your cock to the naked image of some random woman but it does nothing for you. So you slam the magazine shut and toss it in the trash bin. This was no use to you now. You've been with the girl or your dreams and it was better than anything you could have ever imagined. You shut your eyes as you recall that night. The surprise hand job and the surprise blow job that followed. Oh how good her mouth felt on your cock. You pump your hand harder as you remember kissing her for the first time and having your tongue inside of her. Oh the way she tastes. You're craving it now. You remember trying to keep her quiet and there was an element of the secrecy that brought you closer to the edge.

You remember how tight she felt as you entered her for the first time and you squeeze your cock just enough to mimic the feeling but there was no fooling your body. This is your hand and not Wanda's pussy. Then a new image pops in your hand. A fantasy that you wish to see happen.

Wanda knocks on the bathroom door to startle you before she walks in. She giggles as you hold your chest with your cock hanging out of your swim shorts. “You look like you need a hand with that.” She says as she gets on her knees. She replaced your hand with her soft delicate hands. That alone brings you closer. She strokes your cock for a moment before she takes you in her mouth. Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of her lips sucking on your cock.

“Wanda, I'm close,” you gasp out as she continues to suck on you.

Wanda pulls off and looks at you with her big green eyes that have darkened with desire. “Good, I want to taste your cum.” She says and puts her mouth on you again.

As you cum in the fantasy, you cum inside of your toilet in real life. “Oh fuck,” you say as you catch your breath. “I am in trouble,” you mutter to yourself as you clean up. You return to your friends and stay away from Wanda as much as possible. She made it impossible to stay soft in her light orange two piece bathing suit.

Later that evening, you're in a nice suite and tie. Your hair is still a little damp from your shower. A very cold shower at that. Not that your dick minded. On the bright side, after cumming three times already today, you're hoping you'll last longer for Wanda. That is, if things go that far tonight. As you get out of the car to make your way up to the front steps, Wanda comes running out of her house in an oversized sweatshirt, that you're pretty sure is yours, and sweatpants with an overnight bag. “Oh, I was just coming up to-”

“No need, my parents think you're giving me a ride to Carol’s slumber party,” Wanda pushes you back into your car and climbs in, throwing her stuff in the back seat. “Drive carefully, I couldn't leave the house with makeup on.” Wanda pulls her makeup bag out of her middle pocket.

“You wear makeup?” You ask as you pull out of the driveway.

“Shut up, it’s a special occasion,” she says while she applies the makeup. As you drive to the restaurant, you warn her when there's a bump or when you're about to make a turn.

As you get closer to the destination you ask, “Do you need me to pull over anywhere so that you can change? I mean you look hot as you are but I don't think the restaurant will let you in.”

Wanda sits back in her seat with a satisfied smile at the work she did. “Don’t worry, I have my dress on underneath.”

“No way, you're wearing a dress too?” You ask with wide eyes. “Wow, you really like me.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, but when you park the car and look at her she softens and smiles. “Yeah, I do,” she leans over the console and kisses your cheek. Leaving a stamp from her big red lips. She giggles as she grabs one of her makeup wipes to clean it off. “But don't get used to all of this getting dressed up business. Especially not when all I want is for you to take it all off anyway.”

You are a little intimidated by how direct Wanda is. The shy girl you once knew is no longer in the body of this confident woman. You're impressed by her change but a little embarrassed that you didn't notice it sooner. You knew Wanda to be the one who takes it slow. She and Vision dated for years and yet you're the one who took her virginity. Not him.

She was someone who loves romcoms and expects the roses and chocolates and the grand gestures and the romantic dates. At least, you thought she was. With how she was acting tonight, you wonder how she stayed a virgin so long.

“Let’s get inside before I can't control myself,” you say. “Wouldn’t want to put your hard work to waste.” You get out of the car before she can say something to convince you otherwise. You go to open her door and while you walk, she is taking off the lounge wear so that when she steps out she can surprise you.

Wanda steps out slowly, teasing you with the sight of her bare leg first. You're speechless when she reveals her entire look for the evening. Her hair falls nicely with her dark loose waves with red lips and light makeup that leaves her still looking natural. The dress is red and stops just below her knees with a small slit at her thigh, it's not a tight dress but it still clings to the right places giving her body a great shape. And to complete the look she is wearing black heels. “Close your mouth, you'll catch flies,” she pats you on the cheek and you shut your mouth, unaware of when it dropped open in the first place.

“You always look good, but wow,” you compliment as you follow her through the parking lot. Wanda is strutting her way to the building and you're looking like a drooling puppy dog behind her.

As the two of you are looking through the menu to order, things heat up as the two of you sit close together in the dimly lit booth. “I think I might order something light. I'm not sure I want to stuff myself with food tonight,” she says conversationally as she drops the menu on the table. Wanda places her hand on your thigh, “It's always best to save room for dessert.”

You swallow as your entire body reacts to her touch. “Yeah, I'm not in the mood for a lot of food either.” You lean in close and whisper, “I’ve got a craving for something off the menu.” You slip your fingers under her dress to caress her bare thigh. Wanda has been very clear about what she is okay with this evening and it relieves you from feeling like you have to try so hard.

By the time the waiter leaves with your orders, your cock is swelling up with arousal from Wanda rubbing you through your pants and your fingers are teasing her through her underwear. “I've been practicing what you showed me last time and,” she gasps as you move her panties to the side.“Ooh, the only thing that gets me off is the thought of being with you again.”

You hum as you move to kiss her neck but don't put your lips on her. Instead you whisper, “Oh yeah? Do you have any fantasies that you want to share with me?”

Wanda smiles, “It’s been weeks,” she bites her lip as you dip your fingers in her, “I have many.” She tries to pull your zipper down but you stop her by removing your fingers.

“Uh-uh uh. Not here,” you tell her. “Through the pants is just fine. And a lot less illegal,” you joke. You kiss her cute pouting lips and she breaks into a smile. It's so natural between the two of you.

An attractive waitress stops by to deliver the drinks the two of you ordered. You grin as you thank her and Wanda clenches her jaws to hide her jealousy until you slip your fingers back inside of her pussy. Your way of letting her know that she holds your full attention. You continue to pump your fingers in her at a steady pace. Her slippery walls constrict around your fingers every so often. The two of you try to present as normal and have a casual conversation when your meals arrive.

“Can I ask you something?” You press on her clitoris causing her to gasp out a yes for an answer. “Why are you lying to your parents about where you are tonight? They know me, they know we're friends.”

Wanda wiggles on your fingers as you continue to fuck her. “I don't want the pressure on us. Whatever we're doing. They'll ruin it. My dad approves of you and my mom has been… oooh… she's been telling me to ask you out before I even realized how I f-feel about you… oh that's good.” She stumbles on her words as you continue to pleasure her with your fingers.

“Ah, so I'm guessing you haven't told the girls about what happened last time either?”

Wanda shakes her head, “No, no, I want it to be just us until… oh my god… until we're ready. They think you… ugh… turned me down and said we're better off friends.”

You nod as you understand her reasoning. Romance is not dead, if you keep it just yours. “Okay, I can agree to that. Especially since I don't want your brother to kill me and-”

Wanda squeezes your bicep, “Baby, please can we not talk about my family when you're… ohh.. doing that to me.”

“Right, and giving me a handjob in front of my family is acceptable,” you retort as you rub her clitoris again.

“Oh please, you thought it was hot,” she shoots back as she squeezes your cock, you almost let out a groan.

“Fair enough,” you take a few big bites of your food and nudge Wanda to start eating. She asks you what's up and you pull your fingers out of her. “I’m trying to at least buy you a meal before we go back to my house. So please, eat something or else I'll feel bad for keeping you up all night.”

Wanda perks up at the mention, “All night huh? You could barely last a few minutes the first time.”

You smirk as you lean in close and whisper, “I already came three times today thinking about you.” You lean back and speak in a normal tone. “I hadn't done that in a while before you surprised me. Plus I'd never done that without protection, the moment you decided to do that it was over for me.”

Wanda tilts her head, “At least I was your first at something.”

You hum and point to her plate with your fork. “Eat.”

“Okay, okay, I'm eating,” Wanda takes a few bites but the food isn't appetizing. No. She is craving something only you can give her. She watches you as you eat. Something that a few years ago disturbed her because you used to chew with your mouth open to annoy her. This time, you're clean with no desire to annoy her, only the desire to get out of this restaurant and fill her with something other than food.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” you say as you drop your utensil and look at her. Wanda smiles and says that she isn't either. You flag down the waiter to pay for the check and leave. Back in the car, Wanda is quick to grab your bulge and try to pull your zipper down. “Can I drive us back to my house first?” You ask in a light laugh.

“Alright,” she sighs, removing her hand from your pants. When you get to the house, the two of you waste no time running to your bedroom. Thankfully you can be as loud as you want with your parents away. You shut and lock the bedroom door and bring Wanda into a passionate kiss. Staining your lips with her red lipstick. You don't mind one bit. “Finally,” she breathes out as she starts to pull on your clothes.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” you go in for another kiss and she catches your face with her hands, holding you close. You grab her by the waist and guide her to the bed. You sit on the side of it with her still standing. “I was trying to be everything you wished for,” you say as you continue to kiss her red lips.

Wanda puts her hands on your chest to stop you and breaks the kiss. “Y/n,” her light laugh causes your heart to flutter along with the bright way she says your name. “You don't have to try, just be you. That's enough for me.” She gives you a light kiss on your nose and you smile up at her. Your heart tightens at her words. You had no idea that you needed to hear them but it means the world that she said them.

“I… gosh I don't know what to say to that,” you admit as you're at a loss for words.

“Don’t say anything, just,” Wanda climbs on your lap to straddle you. “Show me how you feel.”

“Okay,” you nod and start to kiss her again. You start with her lips then you move to her neck, down to her collar bone, finally you arrive at her chest. Instead of reaching behind her to unzip the dress, you lower the strap on her shoulder and place a few kisses there. You raise your eyebrows when you notice that she doesn't have a bra on and you pull her breast over the dress and put your mouth over her nipple. You lick circles around her nipple and suck on her breast then you bring the other one out of the dress and give that breast the same attention.

Wanda has her hands in your hair as she learns about this new sensation. Her pussy starts squeezing and making her hips move involuntarily and she knows that her body is craving so much more. She rubs herself on your bulge in hopes that will give you the hint to move this along. She has weeks of pent up sexual tension that was controlling her actions right now. Forget weeks. It was years worth. She's impressed with how well you've contained yourself all evening.

“I need you,” she whispers as she massages your scalp. You remove your mouth from her chest and look up into her eyes of desire. “Please,” she begs, “I’ve been patient all night.”

This makes you chuckle as you shake your head, “No you haven't.”

She breaks into a sweet smile, “Okay, maybe not tonight but I have been waiting weeks for you to make the next move.”

“Okay, that's fair,” you gently bring her face down to yours for a kiss that she is eager to return. She moves her hips on your crotch again, making your dick as impatient as Wanda is. “Let me lay you down,” you say against her lips as her hands travel down your body and try to pull on your zipper.

“No, I’m okay right here,” she pulls your hard cock out and strokes you underneath her.

“At,” you struggle with breathing between the kissing and the hand job, “At least let me grab a condom.”

Wanda giggles as she pulls her underwear aside and teases the tip of your penis with her dripping entrance. “I already told you not to worry about that,” she reminds you as she slowly sinks down onto you.

Your groans fill the room as you enjoy every sensation being sent through you from her tight warm walls. Nothing in the world felt better than this right now. “You are so awesome,” you compliment awkwardly.

Wanda giggles, “Shut up,” she kisses you in order to keep your mouth busy. She has a tight grip on your shoulders as she rides you. As she picks up a faster pace, she stops kissing you and tips her head to the ceiling. Her breasts bounce in your face as she does. You can hardly handle the view. You don't know how you got so lucky. To show how much you appreciate her, you start kissing her exposed body. Letting her know the things you don't know how to put into words yet. Your hands claw at her dress to pull it further down her torso.

The next position Wanda wants to try is with her on all fours and you thrusting into her from behind. The two of you take your clothes off as you move around the bed to get in the position. This one has you doing all of the work now. You don't mind it at all. You reach underneath her to rub her clitoris and it causes her to release a noise you hadn't heard from her before. It encourages you to do more.

You start thrusting into Wanda a little harder than before and she lets you know that she likes it. You hold her beautiful ass with your hands as you start to pound into her aching pussy. “Fuck!” you say as her walls tighten around your cock as she experiences an orgasm. Neither of you knew that she was so close. It was a surprise to her as much as it was to you. It causes Wanda's arms to go weak and she collapses her face into the pillow underneath her. You pull out of her to check on her. “Are you okay?” You nudge her shoulder softly.

Wanda turns on her side and smiles at you. “Yeah, I um, didn't expect that but, oh it was so good.” She lays on her back and reaches for you to come closer to her. When you do, she whispers in your ear, “I want you to fill me with your cum again.” You nod and your dick twitches with excitement as you slip back inside of her slippery walls. You continue to fuck her in the missionary position, kissing her on the lips every so often until you feel it happening. Cum shoots out of your cock, filling the girl of your dreams up.

When it's over, the two of you hold each other for a moment. Taking the time to appreciate the fact that this hasn't complicated your relationship the ways you've always feared. “I love you, Wanda,” you admit softly.

She sits up and gazes into your eyes, she wasn't ready to return those words but she did appreciate hearing them. So, instead of a verbal response, she kisses you and that is enough for you, for now.

The End.

#wanda x y/n #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda smut #wanda fanfic #smut #wanda maximoff

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multi-fandomsfreak · 8 months

Note

Okay my request is Xenophanes(Sonic.ExE) fluff headcanons when the reader gives him pets and scratches behind his ears(probably his favorite spot) (I headcanon he’s very clingy and wants attention that’s why he’s so possessive over the reader)

(if you don’t mind- I really love Xeno)

Xenophane Fluff Headcanons

Hey thanks for the ask

Of course I don’t mind. Honestly I don’t blame you for liking him, it’s the same for me as well. Also, I actually like that headcanon. To think that you can get xeno to be clingy and possessive by a simple gesture. Anyways, hopes you enjoy. ~ J/Blaze

Pronouns: Not Mentioned

Warning: ⚠️Some swearing here and there⚠️

Requested: Yes/No

Characters: Xenophane/Sonic.exe

Proofread: ❌

Credits: Art by Groowwll on Twitter + Banner by MaybeAriaaaa on Pinterest

———————————

- When you first decided to pet xeno initially he’s confused as fuck. You, a mere mortal, was petting him who he considers himself a god like a goddamn dog. Do you not have a death wish? You clearly do if you're doing this to him. But at the same time he can’t really deny that it feels good but knowing xeno there’s no way in hell he’ll admit it. You're not going to get xeno to admit that he enjoys this, he’s too prideful to admit it but I’m pretty sure that it would be so he doesn’t really say anything about it.

- This is probably one of the only times you get to see him like this and only you, no one else. He wouldn’t dare be caught doing this or do it with other people. You're an exception that he’s willing to make. Surprisingly he gets really embarrassed, almost like a child being embarrassed by their parents. But it doesn’t really matter to you, no matter how many times he tells you to stop, you still keep doing it and to be honest he actually kind of impressed that you don’t give up easily and actually praises you for it despite the situation he’s doing it in. On the other hand, if he sees anyone or anything that wants you to do the same to them that you do to him, he immediately gets really jealous. Yes he knows that he may or may not be contradicting himself but you're his, you belong to him you can only do that to him. He demands your attention. It's not his fault that you’ve got him hooked onto you just from a simple movement of your hand. He’s basically the definition of that one cat meme:

+ Xeno -

+ Also Xeno -

- Slight adding in the previous point, sometimes when you do this to him he becomes slightly self conscious. Like sure he likes it and doesn’t necessarily mind you doing it but he kind of feels like he’s not being seen as scary. He likes it when people are afraid of him and when he sees someone who isn’t he doesn’t really know what to do. It surprised you that xeno can even feel self conscious but despite that you still comfort him. You still tell him that he’s great at doing what he is, just because you're doing this doesn’t mean you think he’s weak

- Just like you’ve said in your request when you do this xeno can become very clingy towards you. As soon as you gently scratch him (especially behind the ears) he immediately stops whatever he’s doing and just goes limp. Congrats you’ve managed to get xeno to go limp, you definitely deserve a medal. You’ve got him in your arms, maybe if you're lucky he’s got his arms around you while you're patting his head. Obviously you do ask him beforehand if you can do it, you weren’t about to risk your life all for a head pat. But sometimes if he’s pissed off enough or in a bad mood you don’t even have to ask him. I can imagine him finding you and just grabbing you, taking you somewhere it’s just the two of you and placing your hand on his head.

- Okay can I just say that he definitely purrs when you pat his head or a noise something similar to it. Some sort of noise to indicate he enjoys it. There’s definitely some times where you’ve pointed it out but of course xeno shuts it down immediately acting like you’re hearing things and immediately demands you continue petting him.

———————————

#sonic.exe #sonic.exe x reader #xenophanes #xenophanes x reader #xenophane #xenophane x reader #sonic the hedgehog #sonic series #sonic series x reader #sonic #sonic x reader #x reader #request

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writefightandflightclub · 6 months

Text

“Yes man” (Cecil Dennis {fuck me, how did I get here} x fem!reader)

Summary: Blurby McBlurbFace. Mainly chat, slight fluff, smut, pining / friends to lovers vibes.

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Warnings: alcohol consumption; drug use mentions (weed); smoking; dumbification of Cecil, I guess. Mommy kink if you squint. Public erections / handjob sorta, premature ejaculation / cum in pants. Mentions of dead fish but no fish were harmed. Actually, a surprising number of animal metaphors. Oops. Rimming I’m sorry that one snuck in very last minute Omg.

A/n: having a shitty mental health day (boo) and this Cecil blurb (whilst not my best) is my self-care ☺️ I don’t remember his character well aside from wet bloody cat boy, but I’m damn sure not rewatching that again so this will have to do 😅. Feedback appreciated! 🧡 (Is the rimming too much? 🙈) Not proofed and I’m almost positive autocorrect will have screwed me over.

Also totally inspired by @my-secret-shame’s meme and @foxilayde’s amazing blurb. I will not pretend to have had an original idea! 🧡

“Come onnnn, Cecil,” you whine, poking him in his soft belly with your index finger. He giggles lightly, almost like a hiccough. “It’s always me coming up with the ideas. What do you wanna do next?”

He turns his head as though in slow motion. Moves as if he’s underwater, this one - at least when he’s got food and several beers in him (which is most of the time). He looks up. Blinks at you; dumbly. “What do you mean?”

Eh. You’d really thought your statement had been quite clear.

You resist the urge to pinch his cheek and tell him It’s a good job you’re pretty.

“I mean, that I suggest things, and you go along with them.”

He blinks again. It’s like everything is just a little slower in Cecil’s world. Takes a little longer to filter through. It’s refreshing, in a way. He’s in no rush, and it encourages you to slow down too. To smell the roses.

Cecil is beyond easy-going, come to think of it. Goes with the flow like a dead fish. You’re pretty sure, in fact, that he’d go along with just about anything. With just about anybody’s hare-brained schemes, without once thinking through a single one of the potential consequences.

Scratch that - he probably already has done just that; which would explain a lot of the trouble he’s routinely gotten himself into since you’ve known him.

Though, you suppose, in a way that’s refreshing too. You always did worry too much.

Besides, he always seems to muddle through, somehow. Though quite how has you stumped. It’s hardly due to his charm or his smarts, now, is it? Even so, despite whatever attributes he is lacking in, you can’t deny that he must be doing something right. Trouble simply seems to slide right off the man’s back. Like water off a… well. A dead fish, you guess. What a versatile metaphor.

He blinks at you again. Maybe those big pretty cow eyes help, just a teency bit, to get him out of trouble, you would wager.

Look at him though. You’ve never seen anyone more relaxed. Practically horizontal as he’s hunkered down in the booth, seated next to you in the corner of your usual dive bar. Maybe there’s something to be said for all the pot and seedy hotel room fucks he indulges in. You bet his shoulders are inordinately loose. Maybe he really does have it all figured out, despite appearances.

As you ponder this, Cecil -eventually- makes a non-committal noise, before his bloodshot, glassy eyes flick back to the TV hung up on the wall. He is barely even watching it. Just letting it happen to him, like he does with most everything else.

That’s probably why you’ve never fucked him, you realise, like a bolt out of the blue. He’s pretty, sure. But you wouldn’t.

You don’t mind control - that’s not it. You don’t mind taking charge. But with Cecil? You think he’d take it lying down - a little too literally. If you’d ever suggested you and he fool around, you’d never know for sure. Never know if it really was his idea - a thought or desire he’d ever had before - or if he was simply far too agreeable and opportunistic to decline. So agreeable, that he’d let you ease your vagina up and down on his cock until you came on him. You were intrigued by the thought, sure. But you refused to go there simply because Cecil couldn’t come up with anything better to do.

You look at him, and immediately bat that thought - the vagina all over cock one - away though, as you regard his complete lack of gumption. It’s tangible. Look at him now, for example. He’d seemed to like the way the air from his non-committal noise had filtered over the neck of his bottle, tucked under his folded chin. Indeed, he is now pursing his full, curvy lips, and blowing over the mouth of it until a soft series of “hoots” fill your booth.

You fold your arms and sigh.

You reckon that will amuse him for the next ten minutes at least, so clearly, once again, Cecil’s not the one coming up with a plan for the remainder of this evening.

It’s not that you ever really have to do anything with Cecil to have a good time. It’s just that, tonight, you’re antsy, and it’s making your thoughts wander in directions. Down below his zipper directions, so help you.

“Beer’s empty,” Cecil states flatly, finally noticing after sucking on the bottle for a mo, poking his wet pink tongue around the rim like the little wet cat boy he is. Cute though. Does things to you.

Anyway. You register his statement, but you observe that no action follows. He doesn’t look at all like he plans to do a damn thing about it.

You decide to test your theory, then. Your theory that Cecil’s simply a dead fish swept along in your river. That maybe he doesn’t even want to be here at all. Never did. That you are just another something that happened to happen to him.

“Do you wanna go get Mexican?” you offer, with ulterior motives Cecil is not shrewd enough to pick up on.

His eyes tick back from the captivating, shifting lights of the TV. “Sure,” he smiles softly at you, perfectly content, it seems - and yet, you are less than satisfied.

“See!” You smack the palms of your hands together in triumph, and he jumps. Pushes himself up a little straighter in the seat, his palms disappearing into the worn, lumpy upholstery. “See what I mean?”

He blinks at you blankly. Again.

Clearly not, then?

“You just go along with anything I say. We ate two hours ago, Cecil,” you complain, recalling the all you can eat Chinese buffet you and he had gorged on with two coupons you’d cut out of the newspaper. You drop your hands to your lap, dejectedly. You’re getting agitated with him, which surprises you, in truth. And still… there Cecil is. Unflappable. Calm. Constant. There are pros to his cons, for sure. “I just… I never know if you actually like what we’re doing, you know?”

“But. You always suggest things I like. So why would I say no?” He shrugs a little. “Tacos are good. I like tacos. I like…” he hoots into his bottle again as he says the word. “You-ooooooh.”

You hate to admit it, but his answer has you stumped for a moment. Cecil’s statements may generally be simple. Uncomplicated. But they can be oddly profound at times.

Christ. Maybe… Does the man actually have a valid point? Or, perhaps you’re looking too hard for meaning in his words - it’s possible. You feel like you’ve spent a lot of time lately looking hard at Cecil, perhaps to justify your bizarre and inexplicable feelings.

Possibly you’re even projecting. His seeming lack of independent willpower would certainly make that easy enough to do.

Maybe the man has a point though. Maybe he’s not as “easy-going” as you think he is. Maybe you’re just coincidentally so attuned to his desires that he’s never had cause to deny you. Maybe you are aligned with his desires. One and the same. “What if I asked you to do something you didn’t like, then?”

You slurp up the dregs of melted ice through your straw and Cecil blinks again as though it’s taking all of his processing power. Damn, though. You’re surprised that the fanning of those endlessly long cow lashes didn’t cause the curtains behind you to billow in the breeze they threw up. “Like what?”

You shake your head. Touch his arm to placate him. “Never mind, Cecil.” Christ. If he can’t even think of a single Thing He Wouldn’t Like, maybe you can safely stick to your dead fish hypothesis. It’s all the same to him. Just happening to him. He’s not choosing you.

That particular thought, when it arrives, niggles you more than expected, but you quash the growing agitation which rides in alongside it.

Meanwhile, Cecil looks around, quite visibly thinking. “I wouldn’t get up outta this seat,” he states adamantly, his voice croaked from all the blunts he’s worked through today. “I wouldn’t like that.”

You believe him. He’s practically sliding down to become a puddle on the floor. Dissolving into the bar furniture; becoming one with the upholstery.

Your lips curl up into a tender smile, remembering one particularly ridiculous night at Cecil’s. The night involving a 3am bong sesh, culminating in him genuinely believing he had merged with the couch, becoming a half-human half-upholstery monstrosity. He had waved the two huge, puffy couch cushions around as though they were his arms, and he’d grabbed you up in the middle of them like a grilled cheese, sandwiching you and taking you down to the floor where the two of you had rolled and laughed until you’d cried.

When the laughter had subsided to only the odd titter here and there, and you had lain on his disgusting rug almost nose to nose? That’s the first time you’d wanted to kiss him, and it turned out not to have been the last.

Fuck. You are rather fond of this idiot, aren’t you? How the fuck did that happen?

Engaged fully now though - slightly more lucid than your fond memory- Cecil sits up. Still slouched but this time over the table, his forearms bracing him against the surface. As he moves, you get a waft of his layered, stale cigarette smell. It’s… confusing, in its appeal. Should be off-putting, but you find, in fact, that it’s a comfort.

“No? You don’t wanna?”

With a rush of affection you link your arm through Cecil’s, and he slumps his head on to your shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You weren’t ready for the way his knotted curls brush your cheek, and it inspires a similarly dense and tangled knot to form in your middle.

“No.” It’s the most sure you’ve ever heard him sound. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“A minute ago we were going for Mexican food, Cecil.” There’s a beat. “That kinda involves movement, you realise?

He swivels his head towards you then, gaze all doe-eyed and pathetic, and the proximity of him parroting on your shoulder knocks you for six. “You mad at me or something, Hottie from Walmart?”

You snort. He doesn’t always pull out that nickname for you - how you’d been known to him before you had been known to him - but it always makes you sentimental when he does.

He shifts from you then, tilting his body towards you. Scrutinising you with apprehension in his sweet face.

Fuck him actually, and fuck his pouty beautiful kissable lips most of all.

You sigh, and you deliberately soften your face. He’s easy-going, sure, but he’s sensitive. Trouble slides off of his back, but other things… other things don’t slip off quite so well, and he often gets like this. Like he’s done something wrong, when he hasn’t.

You actively resist the urge to coddle him. To tenderly rake his somewhat grimy but beautiful curls off of his forehead.

You hardly want to examine the fact he brings out your… motherly instincts; but it doesn’t escape your attention that he always seems like he’s craving just a little nurturing. You want to take your thumb and smooth out the creases in his troubled brow.

“No, Cecil. I’m not mad at you. I’d tell you if I was and we’d talk about it.”

He nods.

You’re not mad at him. Really. And so, you take pause to wonder why this happy-go-lucky trait of his is particularly irking you today. “It’s mostly a good thing, I promise.”

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

He looks pleased for a minute and then: “Wait. What’s a good thing?”

You want to kiss his stupid mouth until he can’t think. Which you don’t think would take long at all, actually.

“That…” You think about how to phrase it, and it quickly occurs to you. “That. You’re my ‘yes man’.” He is expressionless for a moment, and you wait for comprehension to slowly crawl over him. “I mean, Cecil,” you take his clammy hand in yours. “That it’s always fun with you. I mean that you never shoot down my ideas. Even when you probably should.”

His face splits with a brief - goofy, but wholly endearing - smile. “You have fun with me?”

His big cow eyes go all soft and wet.

Oh boy. This idiot. If you didn’t have fun with him, even just sitting on his grotty couch, what other reason could you possibly have to hang out with him, huh?

You open your mouth to say as much before thinking better of it, but for once Cecil beats you to it.

“I have fun with you too, Hottie.”

It’s another one of those moments of levity that you’ve experienced surprisingly often with Cecil. One of those moments where everything feels a just little more profound. A little more magical. Sometimes, Cecil gets you in the gut just a little harder than expected.

Great. And now you’re thinking of Cecil all up in your guts.

“I should think so - I’m awesome. But, right now? All I’m saying is…” You tap your noggin. “Tank empty. No ideas. It’s your turn to decide what we do tonight? Okay?”

You search his eyes. His big, beautiful, sincere and secretless eyes. You silently ask the true question you want to ask him. I want to know what you want.

You’re not yet ready to admit the questions buried right beneath that one: do you want me back? Could you? Would you, Cecil?

“Yeah?” Cecil responds, unsure, and you immediately worry that you have, in fact, given him too much responsibility. His expression compresses in a frown of deep, deep concentration. Like he’s really wrestling with this.

You watch with bated breath, dying to see what he comes up with - if anything at all.

And then - aha - he finally has it.

“I could jerk off.”

“Wha-?” You playfully bat him in the arm, aghast. “Cecil!!”

“What?” A surprised, contrite laugh bobs in his throat.

“I mean.” You swallow. “How is that an idea for both of us?”

Oh that’s your problem with his idea?

That it’s not participatory enough?

“You could help.”

Your jaw drops open. “Cecil! I’m not gonna-” you switch to a loud whisper “-jerk you off!”

He blinks again, his eyes glinting with a gentle - ever so gentle - flicker of amusement. “You’re not a yes man,” he complains softly, his curly lips sneaking up into a curly smile. “Always shooting down my ideas.”

He bats his lashes at you and oh boy - even Cecil must be starting to figure out that you’re a sucker for those big, pretty brown eyes. Your one true weakness.

“That’s really what you want?” you ask, trying to keep things light. To keep your tone jokey and jovial, like always, despite the rising tremor in your voice. “It would involve getting up, you realise?”

He winks at you - a gesture which seems entirely unlike him and yet somehow works - and smirks down at his crotch. “Already am.”

“If you’re really so uncontrollably horny, why don’t you get someone else around here to help you, huh?” Your heart skips a beat. “Why me?”

He’s looking at you like he wants you but… he’s an opportunistic guy. Goes with the flow. That’s how things come to him; he’ll take his cigarettes and beers and fucks wherever and whenever he can get them.

He unceremoniously pulls out a rolled blunt and lights it up, the filter end pressed between his plush pink lips.

“No.” It bobs as he talks and he takes little, peppered drags to get the burn going.

“No?”

You blink at him dumbly now.

“No. I only want you.”

Correction. That’s the most sure of anything you’ve ever heard him.

He slips forward, exhaling his smoke into your mouth as his lips caress yours. “Come on,” he encourages. “Get going. Before my penis turns into a couch cushion.”

He kisses your laugh, and as his tongue slides hungrily against yours suddenly it isn’t quite so funny. Suddenly, you feel like maybe Cecil has the best ideas.

“Right here?” You reach down, and you smooth your palm over the clothed bulge at his crotch. “In the booth?”

“I’m already barred. Heh. What are they gonna do?”

You smile at him, licking your lips as Cecil bucks up into your hand, his head lolling back against the lip of his seat, and his pretty eyes fluttering closed.

He groans, as your fingers snake to tease open the button at his fly.

“Oops,” Cecil whispers contritely, almost immediately, his cheeks and his ears darkening with a deep crimson flush as he looks over to you. “I just… I…”

Oh God. He just came in his pants, didn’t he? Oh Lord that makes you inexplicably hot.

His big, pretty eyes are wet with apology. “Are you mad?”

“No, Cecil.” Poor baby. “I just think I should take you home and get you cleaned up, hmm?” You next words all run into one, as you struggle to get your new genius plan out of your mouth. “Mayberimyoualittlewhatdoyousay?”

Did you actually just suggest that you take him home to rim him? Good Lord.

He blinks rapidly, the colour in his cheeks flowering more, like a beautiful rose unfurling. “Y-Yes. I say yes.”

It’s a hare-brained plan, for sure, but you decide that for once,

you might as well just…

go with the flow.

It certainly works for Cecil.

#I bet I cave and watch it again #cecil dennis x reader #cecil dennis #Oscar Isaac

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lesbianslvt666 · 10 months

Note

Hi, how are you?

can u imagine the reader is ellie's girlfriend and one day she goes on the reader's instagram and sees a guy sending nasty messages to the reader and it makes her angry, something like ellie texts the guy threatening him and then she argues with the reader for not telling her about it and that ends up with ellie fucking the reader hard, but being cute in the end? ty 😘

Hello love 💕

Not proofread lol

Cw: smut, mean!Ellie, kinda sub!Reader i guess, slaps, fingering (R! Receiving), kinda denigration, squirting, over stimulation. Rushed ending. Idk what else lol

Ellie and you trusted each other so much.

You where the one with the idea of having both face id’s on your phones, so when you where doing something else Ellie could look for a song or do whatever.

And now was very handy. Ellie was bored out of her mind, you had offered to cook something fast to watch a movie and her phone was dead.

She unlocked it and went straight to instagram, she loved watching your pics and you had the most random explore page.

It wasn’t a secrete that you had too many unread messages, i mean, look at you! Pretty and talented, a lot of randoms followed you there either for your fashion or your looks or to watch you paint or to hear snippets of your songs.

Ellie thought it was a good laugh to go thorough your your requests, people where shameless sometimes, sometimes funny, and other times like right now, where just so nasty.

The ugliest dude with only one misogynistic meme on his page. The messages started as “flirtatious” (dry and awkward) but as time went by the messages got more and more aggressive and sexually suggestive.

Her blood was boiling, her free hand was scrunching the duvet with so much force that her finger where burning.

Without a second thought she started to type, every word more aggressive than the last one, she typed the last words fast and sent it, she left you phone down, face red, her anger was blinding her.

You entered the room with two plates of food.

“Babe, ya’ wanna help me with the drinks? Couldn’t bring them and-“ your word cut off by her scoff, your eyes traveling to her.

“Whats wrong Ells?” Your words careful after leaving the plates down.

“Angel, you remember when i told you that if anyone ever even dared looking at you the wrong way you were to tell me? Like right away?” Her hand traveling all the was up caressing from you hand up you arm to your face.

She places a stray hair behind your pretty ear. “Yes baby” your voice small, her face changed. “You don’t have anything to tell me?” Her middle and thumb fingers grabbed you harshly.

Moving your face to her liking, looking at you in a way that kinda scared you, however that only made your wetness pool on you panties.

“No baby, i promise” her eyes went dark, blown pupils, her lust mixing with anger. “You slutty lair” her mouth attacking yours with hunger.

She was feeling every part of you and you let her, although your confusion was fighting for dominance against your lust.

“Wait baby, what- ahhh- what why… mmmhhh” you couldn’t speak correctly, her mouth leaving marks on your neck and her hands squeezing your ass harshly was enough to make you delirious.

“There’s” a slap on your eyes made you squeeze your cunt on nothing, eyes closing shut. “A stupid bitch” another slap. “on your request” and she took this time to manhandle you to the bed.

she sat without a word and bed you over her lap. “His messages are very disgusting angel” slap. “Why didn’t you told me?” Her hands massaging your ass to let you speak.

“I just.. umm.. i dint wanted to ummmhaaaaa.. worry you baby!” After every word you spoke her hand traveled further in between your legs.

“It was nothing… mmmmhhaaaa!” Her hand slapped your cunt when you said that, anger filling her again.

“Nothing?” Her face coming close to your face. “Can i take this off princess?” Her fingers hooking up at the waist band of your butty shorts. “Yes, Ellie yessss please, touch me, do anything!”

She took it, taking down your shorts and panties.

Soaked pussy glistening with your milky essence.

She licked her lips while moving her fingers up and down, the stimulation too much.

She inserted two fingers out of nowhere, the pain mixing with delicious pleasure.

“Fuck baby, yes, like that…” your voice just above a whisper. Her hand moving in and out of your pussy so hard your juices where dripping down yours and her leg. You couldn’t take it any longer.

She stopped all movements, carrying you to the bed, taking off your shirt and hers, she knew how much you liked seeing her boobs bounce when she fucked you.

“You better tell me, this shit, even if its not important okay bitch?” Her hand glistening with your cum massaging your boobs, pinching hard and without a care, your body squirming at the feeling, and after all the juices where clean on your tits, she moved to your neck, pressing your wind pipe softly, loving how your mouth opened and your eyes rolled back in bliss.

And thats how she fucked you for the past hour, fingers in and out through your squirts and highs, aiming for over stimulation, and when you simply couldn’t take it any more. She stopped.

She knew your body like the palm of her hand and she know she was overstepping her boundaries. Even if you loved it.

She knew you’ll be sore in the morning and she didnt wanted you to feel uncomfortable.

She give your clit a sweet kiss, going all the way up to your face, she kiss all over, both giggling at her sweet change.

“I love you baby, i just don’t want anyone to make you feel bad or anything” she was a bit awkward, feelings weren’t an easy thing for her.

She took a soft towel that she bought especially for this cause she thought “the normal towels could be too rough on your pretty skin”, wet it a bit and came back to clean you.

She tossed the towel back to the bathroom and took both plates, both of you now under the covers and cuddling on the bed, she pressed play on the Lorax and you laughed at that.

“I love you Ellie” you said looking up at her.

“I love you more baby” she said kissing you on the forehead.

“Fuck i forgot the drinks” she said followed by a groan.

Hope you liked this baby 💋🫶

#ellie williams #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x female reader #lesbian #the last of us #ellie x you #modern au #domestic au #ellie x y/n #wlw ship #wlw pride

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kekaki-cupcakes · 8 months

Note

Hello! ✨

So… hear me out: Nico with a monster reader.

Like imagine he is sent out to defeat him but turns out he’s good and super like chill and relaxed.

Like imagine he goes in and suddenly he is sat down drinking tea and chatting about the weather.

Lol.

So nico sneak him in the camp covered in mist and when asked goes like *cue it’s a smoothie meme* “just found him… nothing weird here”

And if ppl discover the reader is a monster he like defends him like totally?

Like I imagine he’d love a reader that’s like maybe half snake? Idk. ‘Cause I think he finds snakes cute.

Maybe not a harpy or fury (is it called like that? I’m not sure)

Leo could totally pull the same stuff too. Maybe Percy too.

Jason totally not.

What do you think?

You can just answer to this as thoughts in need of an opinion and not a request if u want to/feel uncomfy writing this kind of reader.

Ps: loved the Dionysus one. Love love love it!

Kisses and enjoy that smoothie!

Love this idea, it was so fun to write and off I went a little overboard it's like 3.1k words so production is delayed but whatevs. It was a bit harder to write a totally general reader because of the monster thing but I think it worked. And if figured out that I tend to write character x readers from the perspective of the character requested too.

Chocolate cream and iced honeycomb---Nico di Angelo x Monster Reader

»»————-　★　———

“RACHGAA!”

“AHGHGHAAAA!” Nico snarled back at the sandy green snake.

It reared back a fraction, unblinking eyes narrowed at him as its thin tongue flickered in and out. Nico just stuck his tongue back out at the Ceraste, a horned viper. It would have been an easy fight, if it wasn’t for the fact that Ceraste grew to be about as big as an alligator.

It bowed to him, but that wasn’t a good thing. Two sets of horns, sharp and spiked, glimmered in the afternoon sunshine as Nico stood his ground, Stygian iron sword ready. “I have other monsters to kill, could we make this quick?”

Mortals around them just whispered behind their hands and kept walking, ignoring the battle to the death in the middle of the street. They probably just saw Nico walking an especially spiky and greek dog. He imagined the Ceraste as a poodle for a moment, and then stepped to the side and swung his sword quickly, blocking the violent jab in his direction.

“You’re supposed to be cute,” Nico hissed at it, stomping down hard on its tail and prodding at the light scales flecked with brown. Blood dripped almost instantly. Its scales were as tough as a normal snakes was, and he took advantage of that. Next time it circled, and shot out with lightning speed, shadows creating an arc through the warm summer air as Nico lashed out.

There was the sound of tearing skin, and a disgustingly drawn out squelch, that ended with a thud.

Nico kept his eyes squeezed shut until he could wipe the blood off his face, and then stared down at the decapitated ancient reptile. Blood and guts squished into the road, which he had to stomp on a few times before they melted into gold and ran down the drains in the rubbish filled gutters.

“Uhh,” Nico muttered, flapping his hand about until the sticky dark blood wasn’t on him anymore. “I need a drink.”

He glanced around the bustling New York street, spotting a hippie cafe that wouldn’t have anything stronger than a matcha tea, and a starbucks. A Mcdonalds not in sight, and at least another hour of tracking the final monster ahead of him, Nico opened the door to the busy starbucks.

As he stood in line behind someone with their hair in a dark bun, and two teenage girls wearing strawberry dresses, he unfolded the piece of paper with instructions for his mission. His target was supposed to be around this district, but Chiron wasn’t sure where exactly. Nico was sent to do the dirty work, because apparently nobody else wanted to see the light drain from something's eyes when they could be finding more demigods or retrieving lost items.

Monsters had been attacking demigods before they were in danger. Last week an eight year old Iris boy had showed up to camp with half a leg left, and the attacks had only grown in numbers.

Apart from being around this place, the only thing in common with the spike of violence, was the scales and thin tongues. A few Hydra's, Echidna the she-dragon had made another appearance, and of course, the multitudes of Ceraste.

Nico had just killed four of them, but there were more to come and more demigods in danger unless he found the source. Chiron had his theories, of course, but far-fetched was the idea that one of the snake footed giants had risen from the earth again. Glycon was an option of course, but Nico doubted it was him.

The queue had disappeared, standing around on the other side of the cafe as they waited for their orders, save one person, who was ordering an ‘iced honeycomb caramel latte’. The boy brushed his hair over his shoulder and turned to look out the window, then back to where he was paying for his latte.

Nico followed his gaze, watching with dread as the previously dead snake was hissing by the window. Hissing right next to him as well.

Nico turned slowly, hand on the hilt of his dark sword, but he was only met with the face of a small green python watching him curiously, big eyes shining underneath the bright lights of the cafe. He smiled back at it, immensely confused.

Then the little snake was pulled away and wrapped up into a writhing green ponytail of scales and little puppy-like reptilian faces, flickering tongues and toothless mouths.

“Is your boyfriend gonna order, or…”

Nico blinked out of his snake induced trance and whipped around to where the girl behind the counter was blinking tiredly at him.

The boy next to Nico stuffed change into his pockets and shook his head. The head the snakes were attached to, that was. The boy's eyes were covered by circular black glasses. He smiled. “Oh, I don’t know the emo.”

“I…” Nico started, eyes wide as he took what, or rather who, he was seeing. A gorgon. A real life teenage medusa [and a cute one at that], was standing in the middle of a starbucks, snakes tied back with yet another of the small pythons. He blinked a few times and cleared his throat, turning back to the cashier. “I’ll have one of the chocolate cream… frappuccinos, please.”

“Coming right up,” the cashier muttered, typing into their ipad and then motioning for him to move to the other side of the counter. Where the monster was.

The monster that Nico was starting to suspect he’d have to kill.

»»————-　★　————-««

“There you go. Have a great day.”

“Thanks,” Nico muttered back just as enthusiastically, and took his drink. He was still holding the hilt of his sword, heart pounding as loud as his footsteps as he stomped away. Was he supposed to find the lair of this teenage boy? Was he immortal? Was there any point killing him if he’d just pop up again? What was Nico going to do?

He didn’t have a drachma on him to call camp and ask Chiron what he should do, and to be honest, he wouldn’t have listened to whatever instruction he was given anyway.

The straw was pulled from his mouth as he was yanked sideways.

Something scratchy brushed his arm, and his middle was grabbed tightly. The breath left his lungs and the world blurred for a moment. Then he gasped, drink flying out of his hand, and landed in a booth on the red leather with a yelp. “What the-”

“Hello, pretty boy.”

Nico stared for a moment, heart racing. The boy [monster. He was a monster, not a person. There was a difference. Maybe] sat on the other side of the booth with a grin, latte in hand. His nails were painted green.

Nico noticed this as he gestured to the side, where the Ceraste he had just killed sat coiled up next to the table like a dog waiting for its owner. The sharp horns on its head looked a lot less threatening now that there was a pink scrunchie around one of them. “This is Keith, say hi, Keith.”

“RACHGAA!”

“What-”

“Ssso like, I'm just getting this straight, if you’re gonna kill me, just say that now.” The boy said, leaning forward with his hands pressed together and an easy smirk. “Because I havent been killed yet and I'm not going to Tartarusss anytime soon.”

He glanced towards Keith with a serious expression. “You sssaw what happened to Jeremy.”

Kieth’s tongue flickered in and out once. He seemed to take it as an agreement. Nico’s hand left his hilt as he spoke, even though he had no control of the situation and there was a tensed up snake by his feet. “What would you do if I was going to kill you?”

“Keep you asss an ornament in my Auntie Em’s garden.” He said, and Nico felt his legs swinging under the table. He put his chin on the palm of his hand. “You’re very pretty.”

Nico wasn’t sure which part of the conversation he should be worried about at this point. He didn’t really want to become a statue, but his stomach was filled with a pit of snakes and he was more worried that this gorgon could see the blush on his face through his black tinted glasses. He ended up blinking, a bit stunned.

“That was a joke, holy Hadesss you’re a wet mop of a person, aren’t you.”

“You’re the one with the mop head.” Nico snapped back with a sharp glare. That might not have been the right thing to say though, judging by the way one of the pythons sitting on the boy's shoulder wilted a little, ducking its soft looking head.

It got a pat on the head. “Don’t listen to him noodle, he didn’t mean it.”

Nico looked at the little green snake. Somehow it looked like it was smiling at him, but that could’ve just been the shape of its mouth. “...Sorry Noodle.”

“Noodle saysss thank you.”

Nico looked down at the floor, where his drink was now a brown puddle surrounded by broken shards of plastic. He glanced back up, squinting at the wriggling pythons that were no longer in a pony [snake?] tail. “Can you actually, you know…”

“Noodle says that Becky said Loch Nessss likes your earringsss, but they think you could do something with your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Nico scoffed, wrinkling his nose. Did his hair look bad? “It looks fine.”

“Don’t asssk me, ask Loch Ness,” he got in reply, then another smirk. Nico’s stomach rolled again, but it didn’t feel necessarily bad. What on Olympus was that supposed to mean? “And I reckon your hair’s pretty as isss.”

A moment passed, and Nico got the feeling he was being assessed. The boy opposite him sniffed once, and Nico wondered if he smelled like snake guts. That couldn’t be a very good look. “You’re a big three, aren’t you… Wait, no, let me guessss… Poseidon.”

Nico raised an eyebrow.

“That was a joke, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I figured.” He muttered, watching in slight disgust as Keith started to lick the chocolate cream frappuccino off the grimy tiles. “And you?”

“Daughter of Aphrodite.”

“That was a-”

“Joke. You’re catching on, pretty boy.” He grinned, and Nico noticed with a gulp that two of his teeth were sharpened and pearly white. Fangs. He shrugged, chin on his hands. “I honestly have no idea though, I dunno how I’m here. Maybe I sprouted out of her head like that flying horse did.”

“Why are you sending monsters to kill-”

“I wasss just tryna divert the attention, okay? That corpse wasssn’t my fault-” He started, waving his hand in the air to prove his point. ONe of the snakes, maybe noodle, twisted around a few times, tongue flickering out. Nico swore another one with a scar down its scaly spine rolled its soft brown eyes.

“What corpse?”

“No corpssse. I dunno what you’re on about, no one died.” He said quickly, taking a long loud sip of his drink, ice clinking. After a moment he sighed and looked down at the chipped nail polish on his hands. “Some demigod dude, ugh there's ssso many of you, gods must be like rabbits or something. Anyways, one of them found me and I diverted the attention, so I’d get another few weeksss.”

“Another few weeks of…?”

“Life. I mean, I can hide easily, but I already spent a month in San Fransisssco being chased by pitchforksss and metal dogs, and I didn't get Ssstarbucks for like, years, otherwise sssomeone would just pop out with a spear and stabby stabby no more Gabby.”

The scarred snake drooped sadly a little, slinking back into the writhing mass. Nico shook his head quickly. “Camp Half-Blood’s not like that. And I can use the mist.”

“What, you just gonna follow me around New York waving your handsss about for the rest of your life?” He chuckled, swirling his plastic cup around a few times and taking another sip.

“No, you can come back with me.”

Nico wasn’t even sure when he’d come up with the plan, but there was something about his smirk and his nail polish and his stupid jokes and the puppy-like python faces swirling around him that made Nico wince when he imagined him sleeping on the streets fighting off Romans.

“Why should I do that?”

“I…” Nico faltered. What reason did he really have? “I dunno.”

He bounced up, snakes swinging. Keith looked up from the puddle on the ground and shook its tail excitedly, like it knew what was happening already. Maybe this teenage gorgon really could mind control the ancient reptiles.

“Sssweet, let’s go!”

»»————-　★　————-««

“Ssso you’re like, completely sure I won’t be decapitated on sight?”

Nico paused, turning away from the gap in the shrubbery at the base of Half-Blood hill. He’d been watching as demigods slowly trickled into the dining pavilion, cabins regrouping for dinner and burning meals. He couldn’t promise this [really cute] boy that he’d be safe here, but Nico could promise that he’d protect him from any especially violent and biased Ares kids.

“If anyone tries to hurt you I won’t let their siblings visit them in the underworld.”

Nico had to look away again, red faced as he did that thing again, leaning forwards with his hand under his chin and his lips quirked up. “How romantic.”

“I- uh…” Nico choked, and then turned back to the now empty strip of green and strawberry plants, finally letting out a tense breath. “If we go now, I can hide you in my cabin until I guilt trip Chiron into letting me keep you.”

“And Keith.”

“And Keith,” he sighed. One more check to see if the coast was clear, and he slunk out of the bushes, pebbles crunching underneath his boots. He grabbed his new Starbucks [he’d been bought a new one as an apology for nearly being killed by Keith] and waved frantically behind him. “Hurry up, we gotta move.”

There was a scuffling, and then the slick sound of scales moving as the Ceraste followed them past the big house and down to the campfire. The flames were a humming orange, burning brightly in the dusk. It was summer, the mood was always high as campers came from school back to their families and friends.

“Okay, so like, where are you friendsss? Do you have friendsss?”

“Do you?” Nico shot back with a glare, keeping an eye on the open door of the Hermes cabin, but there was no movement inside, except for the pegasus that was chewing on someone's pillow.

“Yup! Noodle and Becky and Loch Nessss and Keith and Gabby and Fruit-”

“Yes…” Nico whispered back, rolling his eyes, but when he turned a little, Loch Ness [how could he already tell them apart?] was flicking its little black tongue at him, gummy mouth wide. “I have friends.”

“Great, isss that them?”

“...What.”

Nico whipped around, stepping in front of the boy he was currently smuggling with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Keith rattled its tail and hissed, neck arched. Nico wasn’t sure who was approaching them, the figures covered by the shadow of the Iris cabin. He kept his voice low, “the mist, we have to cover you.”

“Can you use the missst?” He whispered back loudly, over the nervous hissing around him.

“Of course I can use the mist,” Nico said. Then he realized something and gritted his teeth, face red. “But, just on me, unless I’m… you know…”

“Nope. I don’t know.” He said simply, and Nico turned away, grabbing his hand very quickly and closing his eyes for a moment, eyebrows pinched in concentration. Nico tried to focus on the magic he was weaving through the air and not the weirdly smooth skin of the hand he was holding, and if his own was sweaty or not.

When he opened them, the boy beside him was blinking with foggy looking dark green eyes that matched the snakes now covered by a dark hood. The only thing still him was that stupid smirk. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Nico’s voice wavered, and his grip tightened. “Okay, now act normal, they're coming over.”

“I’m not normal?”

“Nico, don’t be rude!” Hazel told him off, a gentle smile on her face anyway. Her hands were in the pockets of a large purple jumper, arm threaded through Franks. He waved nervously at Nico, like he still wasn’t sure he wasn’t about to kill him via skeletons. Hazel turned to the currently covered by mist boy. “Sorry about h-”

She squinted as a door slammed near the big three cabins. Nico’s hand was definitely too tight as his sister stared down the boy next to him. She licked her lips, “why is he covered by the mist, Nico?”

He had almost forgotten she was chosen by Hecate, goddess of the mist. Almost, but not quiet. He ducked his head. “Er, so you don’t… kill him?”

“I prefer to stay out of Tartarusss actually, I heard it smellsss pretty bad down there-”

“You can’t even imagine.”

Nico froze. Oh, could this get any worse? He sighed and turned to Percy, hoping his fingernails weren’t leaving indents in the smooth skin he was clutching. His other hand was cold from the icy drink he was holding.

Percy grinned obliviously, “who got there?”

“...Starbucks.”

“Ha ha,” Hazel muttered, raising an eyebrow. Nico nodded, pretending he was laughing too, and then sped past them, dragging along the hidden gorgon to the Hades cabin, who waved happily as they left the group.

Frank shuffled, “isn’t there a two demigods not allowed alone in a cabin rule?”

Nico groaned internally. Why did he have to word the [snitchy] question in such a way? He knew what he was going to see before he even turned to the shortly disguised boy next to him. He sighed and nodded, letting go of his hand and taking a long sip of his drink as he watched the chaos go down.

“Good thing I’m not a demigod!”

Hazel’s expression didn’t shift, she’d seen right through the magic at the very start. She’d seen the coils of scales and the circular black glasses, the strangely smooth skin somewhere between human and snake. She might’ve even seen the tiny fangs. Frank stepped back behind his girlfriend a little, his eyes wide.

Percy visibly paled, and then gulped. “Oh.”

“No hard feelingsss man. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

Nico watched his gorgon for a moment and then smiled a little. He turned back to the gravel path leading to his cabin. “You ready? There’s a lot of skulls, just warning you.”

“Wait til you ssssee my place."

»»————-　★　————-««

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